A Dagger Unseen
by mahc
Summary: JEDDONNA Ninth story in the As I Was Drifting Away series. rn“Cruel with guilt, and daring with despair,rnThe midnight murderer bursts the faithless barrnInvades the sacred hour of silent restrnAnd leaves, unseen, a dagger in your breast.”
1. Old Saint Nick

POV: Donna Spoilers: None specifically Rating: PG Disclaimer: There are a few original characters in this story, but most were created by A.S.  
  
A Dagger Unseen – Chapter One A West Wing Story  
  
by MAHC  
  
"Cruel with guilt, and daring with despair, The midnight murderer bursts the faithless bar; Invades the sacred hour of silent rest And leaves, unseen, a dagger in your breast."  
  
Samuel Johnson  
  
It was too cold to snow on Christmas morning, but the two and a half inches that had fallen three days before still stretched across the streets of Washington, the powdery beauty hardened into a more treacherous slab of ice. But Donna Bartlet had not noticed it yet, had not risen to glimpse the outside world. She still curled under the protective comforter, snug against the warm body of her husband, a body that, once again, lay by hers without the barriers of clothing.  
  
Slowly, her eyes peeked open, took in the early stream of sunlight pouring through the slits in the drapes. For a moment, she stretched lazily, curious about the strange fatigue in her arms and legs. Then she remembered, and the furious blush that washed over her entire body gave evidence of the incredible night she had shared with Jed. Smiling at the tingling memories, she propped on an elbow and let her eyes linger on him, beginning at his face. The worn lines that had begun to etch deeper in his forehead were smoother now; the pinch between his brows relaxed. And she knew it wasn't just the physical release that brought that change – although it certainly had not hurt. It was an emotional relief from the tension between them. It was a healing from wounds they had not even realized existed.  
  
She let her gaze travel over his chest, watching it rise and fall for a moment, celebrating his continuing health, his strength. As she moved lower, she eased the comforter down, baring the rest of his body for her enjoyment. He was handsome indeed, she thought. Another blush pinked her cheeks as he stirred slightly, his shifting hips unconsciously presenting her with a delicious view.  
  
She considered waking him with another present, even if she was a little sore from the night before, but the muffled frets of an infant jerked that idea away from her. Before they could grow into a full-blown wail, she had slid from the bed and lifted the baby to her breast. Propping against the headboard, she guided him to the sweet milk he sought, smiling at the intimacy, at the deep connection between mother and child.  
  
Her eyes closed, and she focused on the sensation that she knew would be with her the rest of her life. She was vaguely aware of movement beside her, but didn't peek until she felt a weight on her legs and a warm, wet touch against her belly. Looking down, she couldn't help the grin at the sight.  
  
The President of the United States lay on his stomach, scooted halfway down the bed, his lips pressed to the slight swell of her abdomen just below her navel. He grinned at her impishly and she felt her heart race.  
  
"Morning sexy," he whispered.  
  
"Ditto," she returned, because he was, hair tousled, jaw rough with stubble, biceps flexed as he slid his arms beneath her hips.  
  
He flicked out his tongue for a lick or two, then contented himself to rest his head against her, face to the side. "You okay?"  
  
Yes, indeed. "Um hmm. Why do you ask?"  
  
"I, uh, I think I need to apologize for last night," he continued, voice mellow with chagrin.  
  
She couldn't imagine what he was talking about. Last night had been the most erotic, most sensuous evening she had ever spent. "What are you –"  
  
But he raised his head. "No. Let me finish." Then, he lowered it again, as if he couldn't meet her in the eye. "Last night was, well, I let things get a little – I was – I was carried away by your – by you. And I know it was probably too rough, especially your first time after the baby. I should have been in control more. I should have known you – "  
  
"Jed – "  
  
"But you were so, well, you made me so – "  
  
"Jed, stop."  
  
He did, looking up at her again, his face so boyish she reached a hand down to ruffle his hair.  
  
"Last night was wonderful. You were wonderful. Just what I wanted."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Oh yeah."  
  
He grinned, obviously relieved, and scooted up the bed to drop a kiss on his son's head. "Really?"  
  
"Yes, really."  
  
"I'd never want to hurt you, Donna."  
  
"I know." And she knew he meant more than just physically, too.  
  
"Hey, Buddy," he cooed to the baby. "Don't you want to see if Santa's come?"  
  
Pursing her lips, she teased, "I'm here to tell you that Santa did, indeed, come."  
  
He smirked. "Mamma's funny, isn't she?" he directed to the child, again. "Let's go see what Old Saint Nick dropped off at J.T.'s house."  
  
Despite his child-like glee, she forced him to wait until she had finished feeding the baby. Can't do one side without the other, that was for sure.  
  
When they finally shuffled the few steps from the bed to the fireplace, she grinned. Laid out in the grandest of presentations was an eclectic assortment to tempt the fancy of every lad. When on earth had had done this? At least three sets of football uniforms, all sporting the Irish logo; a Boston Celtics jersey; every type of ball known to man; four immense stuffed animals, all replicas of endangered species (her contribution); a motorized swing; a playpen; an activity jungle; and an embarrassingly extensive assortment of literature, from The Real Mother Goose to a brand new copy of Norton's Anthology of English Literature.  
  
She lifted a brow at her husband, who shrugged and said, unapologetically, "You're never too young for Shakespeare."  
  
The recipient of these treasures seemed unimpressed, until his father thrust a squishy mini soccer ball into his face, and he found some satisfaction in slobbering on it. His parents, however, beamed with the nostalgia of their own childhood Christmases. Donna cast a sideways glance at Jed, wondering if his holidays had been joyful, hoping that, even in the tension of his home, there had been some pleasure at Christmas. Whatever his experience, he seemed quite content now, even goofily happy over the moment.  
  
The tentative – and ubiquitous – knock snatched away their rare peace. Jed shook his head. "Surprise."  
  
They were all still naked, even J.T., except for the diaper, and Donna enjoyed watching her husband walk the few paces to retrieve the pajama bottoms he had quickly discarded the night before – or had she discarded them for him? Slipping back into her own robe, she nodded her readiness before he opened the door.  
  
"Merry Christmas, Mister President," Leo greeted. "Good morning, Donna." Not surprisingly, he was fully dressed: coat, tie, pocket handkerchief.  
  
"Leo," Jed returned. "What the hell – "  
  
"Jed!" she warned.  
  
"What on earth are you doing here at – what time is it?"  
  
"Seven-fifteen," the chief of staff supplied.  
  
"At seven-fifteen in the morning?"  
  
"I'm wishing you a Merry Christmas."  
  
"And?"  
  
"And, I'm letting you know that your in-laws' plane has been delayed in Chicago, but they should be arriving just in time for lunch."  
  
"Okay. Again I ask what on earth you are doing here at seven-fifteen in the morning. Charlie could have told me that."  
  
"You sent Charlie home yesterday."  
  
"Well, someone else could have told me. You're supposed to be enjoying your holiday."  
  
"I am, sir." Right.  
  
"You are absolutely hopeless, Leo," Jed decided, throwing a hand up. "Hopeless."  
  
"Yes, sir. Do you want to send a car to pick them up?"  
  
"Nah, let's just let them walk across the Potomac, why don't we? Maybe my brother-in-law will be too tired to throw a punch at me this time."  
  
"Jed!"  
  
"Well, if we have to – "  
  
"When you're dressed, sir, there's just a little something we need to discuss." His tone was carefully casual, but even Donna heard the tension behind it. Jed sobered immediately, jerking up his chin.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Nothing, really." Not very convincing. "It'll wait."  
  
"Leo – "  
  
"It'll wait, Mister President. I'll catch up with you in a while."  
  
He left, but Jed had changed suddenly, the little boy glee over Christmas replaced by the grown-up leader-of-the-free-world burden from every other day of the year.  
  
They had chosen to attend a Mass at the Franciscan Monastery on Quincy Street, which offered the flexibility of services at 7:00, 8:30, 10:30 and noon. If they went at 10:30, they could be back at the White House in time for the arrival of her family and for dinner. The new nanny, Tricia, had arrived around 8:30 to take care of J.T. while she prepared herself for church. So she and Jed had at least thirty minutes alone. She wondered if he would be interested in one more present. Maybe a little bonus gift before Mass. Wait – was that sacrilegious? She decided she didn't really care.  
  
She arched under the hot spray of the shower, letting the massage setting pulse and beat a rhythmic pattern against her shoulders and back. Jed's shower had been much quicker. She wondered if he could have used the same treatment for his own strained muscles. Already she had seen him wince this morning when he bent to tie his shoes. He shouldn't have lifted her yesterday onto the desk – well, in hindsight, anyway, but at the moment –  
  
Her skin buzzing from the strong massage, Donna grabbed a towel and stepped from the shower, eager to catch her husband off guard – to send him to church relaxed and happy. But when the water stopped, the voices from their bedroom delayed her plans, then dissolved them altogether.  
  
Leo had returned, and by the sound of things, the conversation wasn't casual. Although she knew it was not really right, she leaned against the door, wanting to know what they were saying, needing to know what was happening. It was hard, though, and she finally gritted her teeth and eased the door open enough to hear them more clearly. Too bad Margaret wasn't there to give her some expert tips on eavesdropping.  
  
"Where are you going, sir?" Leo asked.  
  
Donna turned her head a little so her ear fit into the crack. The tone was not casual.  
  
She could tell Jed had not stopped getting ready to answer. "I'm going to Mass, Leo. We're going to Mass. Christmas Mass. Just like every year."  
  
"Do you think that's wise?"  
  
A pause, and not a pleasant one. "What are you saying?"  
  
Leo sighed. He didn't like doing this, Donna could tell. "I'm saying the note threatened to – "  
  
"I KNOW what the note threatened," Jed snapped, and Donna flinched. She knew what the note said, too.  
  
The chief of staff's voice had grown gentler now, backing off at the sound of a tenuous hold on control from the President. "I know you want to go to Mass, Jed," he said.  
  
Donna caught a breath. If he had lapsed into using his friend's name, something deeper was happening. She peeked around the door frame, saw them almost squared off facing each other now.  
  
"I've always gone to Mass," Jed reminded him, his voice losing a bit of the edge. "Every Christmas. My entire life. My God, what's Christmas about, anyway?"  
  
"I agree." That calm, that logic; something else was coming.  
  
Jed knew it, too. "But?"  
  
"But the circumstances are different now. You have to consider – "  
  
"Yeah." His tone fell in defeat, his body slumping with it. Donna fought the impulse to rush out and wrap her arms around him. Instead, she held back, watching and listening, trying to make sense of what they discussed.  
  
"I'll go alone," he decided.  
  
"I'm not even sure – "  
  
"I said, I'll go alone, Leo. They'll stay here. No danger to them, as long as – "  
  
Danger? As long as what?  
  
"What about to you?"  
  
He turned to stare out the window, probably not even seeing the white world before him. "It's not me they want – "  
  
"We can't know that for sure. They might take what they can get."  
  
Oh God.  
  
A rare flash of temper swept over her husband's face, and he swung around fiercely. "Damn it, Leo! Damn it! I can't just shut down. I WILL NOT just shut down."  
  
"I'm not asking you – "  
  
"Yes, you are. That's what you're asking. I won't send Donna and J.T. out into danger. You know I'd die before I'd let anything happen to them."  
  
"I know." Soft answer, no doubt there.  
  
"But I can't remove myself from the world. I can't let them win – or him win, or whoever the hell – "  
  
Finally, the calm that had characterized Leo's argument snapped. "Don't you think they win when they kill you?"  
  
Kill him? She felt sick. What on earth was going on?  
  
The two men remained silent for a moment, breath coming hard for both. After at least a full minute, Jed said, "I've given in to everything this lunatic has demanded. I tried to – " His voice broke. "I did what Ron asked. I kept my distance, even though – How the hell would anyone know, anyway?"  
  
Leo cleared his throat awkwardly. "You are the President of the United States. There's no more real privacy. You know that. As for keeping your distance, there's, uh, well, there's a story out there about – about an incident yesterday in the Oval Office."  
  
Donna flushed and watched Jed's face do the same, but for entirely different reasons.  
  
"That's between my wife and me, Leo. No one else's business." He sounded more angry than embarrassed.  
  
"Normally, I would certainly agree with you, Mister President." Back to being formal. Good or bad? "But in this situation, we don't know who is watching."  
  
"NO ONE was watching, Leo. My God, what do you think of me?"  
  
"I think you are a man who loves a woman and who wants to be with her. But this guy's insane. And you just assumed no one was watching. Maybe – " He sighed again. "This is something we've never dealt with before. Ron has called in more agents this morning in case – in case there's a – reaction."  
  
Jed's voice had darkened, the words grinding out in dangerous tones. "Reaction? This has gotten ridiculous, Leo. How can someone be so close that he knows when I make love to my wife, but we can't even figure out WHO IT IS?" He finished at a flat yell, prompting an agent to peek in the door.  
  
"Mister President?"  
  
Leo stepped forward, hand waving off the assistance. "It's okay. Everything's okay."  
  
With one curt nod, the guard retreated to resume his protective post.  
  
"It's because he's so close that we're having trouble," the chief of staff suggested, voice soft.  
  
"I should send them away," Jed decided suddenly. "I should send them to New Hampshire or to Camp David until we figure this out."  
  
"Maybe."  
  
"Leo, you tell Ron if he doesn't find this person, or these people, soon I'm going to – I'm going to – " She heard him let out a heavy breath. "God, I don't know what I'm going to do. I can't continue like this, Leo."  
  
Now it took all the strength in her not to race from the bathroom, naked, and take him in her arms.  
  
He ran a hand through his hair, destroying any neatness he had previously created. "You're telling me I put my wife in danger yesterday by loving her. You're telling me I'm putting myself in danger by going to Mass. You're telling me I can't stay here, but I can't go anywhere else, either. What the hell ARE you telling me, Leo?"  
  
Perhaps trying to counter the emotions of his friend, Leo kept his voice low, level, reasonable. "I'm telling you that a crazy man has threatened your family. I'm telling you that someone who has inside connections wants to harm your child, and your wife, and possibly even you, if you get in the way. He's given specific warnings. He's sent letters – "  
  
"Letters?"  
  
The silence and the streak of regret on Leo's face told her he had slipped. Jed pounced, actually grabbing his chief of staff's shoulders and squeezing. "Letters? More than one? You told me there was just one. Leo?"  
  
With a heavy breath, his friend nodded and detached himself from the desperate grip. Slowly, he withdrew a single folded sheet of paper from his jacket pocket and handed it to the President.  
  
Jed took it, flipping it open and reading it. Donna watched him carefully, almost lunged for him when she saw him sway, saw the blood drain from his face. Leo snagged an elbow. It was enough to keep him on his feet until he regained the strength himself.  
  
After a shuddering breath, he muttered, "Oh my God." The paper crumpled in his hands. "When – when did you get this?"  
  
"This morning. That's a copy. The FBI is running tests on the original right now."  
  
He swallowed and braced himself against the couch back. "This means – "  
  
Leo nodded. "Yeah."  
  
"Oh my God," he repeated, visibly shaken.  
  
"We'll find him, Jed. We will."  
  
That seemed to reach him more than any other plea. He took in a shuddering breath and nodded.  
  
"It had been seven weeks," he murmured, and Donna knew instantly what he referred to. "She thought – "The tears were evident even in his voice. "I couldn't let her continue to think I didn't want her."  
  
"I know."  
  
"I thought I was doing the right thing. She needed – hell, I needed – Oh my God, what have I done?"  
  
"You did what you thought was best," Leo reassured him. "You always do."  
  
"But if he knows now that we – that I –"He shoved the smashed sheet of paper in his friend's face, anger blackening his own features. "Find this bastard, Leo. You find him."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"I want every single person in this building checked. Every single person."  
  
"Yes, sir. Senior staff, too?"  
  
He hesitated, then said, "Every single person."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
Then Leo was gone, and Donna watched her husband for a minute. To her alarm, she saw that his entire body shook. With an uncharacteristic snarl, he crushed the wad of paper in his hand and threw it across the room. But its innocuous flight did nothing to relieve his fury, so he fumbled blindly for something, anything, to give him satisfaction. He found it on the coffee table: a delicate vase that she remembered being presented to them by the Ambassador from Sweden. Catching it up in his grip, he reared back and hurled it against the fireplace, yelling out unintelligibly as he did. The fragile porcelain shattered against the hard frame, its tiny pieces raining down onto the floor.  
  
She had never seen him like that, had never witnessed a loss of physical control from him. Stunned, she grabbed her robe from the door and plunged into the room, tying the sash just as Ron Butterfield burst in from the hall.  
  
"Mister President?" he asked, and, although his voice remained its usual even level, his eyes flashed. Jed didn't move, didn't acknowledge anyone else's presence.  
  
"It's okay, Ron," Donna assured him, even though she was far from believing her own words. "It's okay."  
  
Unconvinced, he nevertheless backed out. "I'll be right out here, Mrs. Bartlet." And she heard the unspoken completion of the sentence: "If you need me."  
  
When they were alone, she took a closer look at Jed. He still stood as he had finished the throw, breath coming hard, body bent in the follow through of a perfectly-delivered fast ball. If the situation had not been so startling, she would have asked him if he played baseball in his youth.  
  
"Jed?" Keep it soft, unchallenging.  
  
Slowly, he straightened and met her eyes, his face red, his clothes in disarray. "I – uh – I broke the Swedish vase. I'm sorry."  
  
"Come here," she ordered, and held out her arms in invitation.  
  
Something broke in him, then, as if he had finally been given permission to let go of some of the burden, of the responsibility. The tears already glistened in his eyes by the time he reached her, even though he was trying hard to push them back. When he stepped into her embrace, his arms went around her, clutching her to him almost desperately.  
  
"What's wrong?" she asked as he buried his face against her neck. "What's wrong, Jed?" Her tone was gentle, like someone would use with a child that had skinned his knee.  
  
His voice was choked, fighting not to lose what little control he still hung onto. "I – I can't – tell you – "  
  
But he had to tell her. For his sake as much as for hers. There was something more, something he still had not shared with her and it was eating him up. Quickly, she pulled back, acting before he realized it, and scooped the mutilated letter from the floor.  
  
"No!" he ground out, reaching for it, but she stepped back, and he didn't pursue. Maybe he realized it wouldn't do any good. Maybe he saw that he couldn't keep this away from her.  
  
Peeling it open and smoothing it out, she let her eyes run over the words that had dealt him such a blow. The nausea rose in her throat, threatened to overwhelm her. The sheer incredulity of it hit her, weakened her knees. This time, he was the one to pull her into a comforting embrace and for a moment they clung to each other.  
  
When the tremors that ran through both their bodies had faded, she gathered the strength to withdraw enough to look at him. Bracing herself, she made sure their eyes were locked before she spoke.  
  
"Tell me everything." 


	2. Sin is Death

POV: Donna Spoilers: "War Crimes" Rating: PG Disclaimer: Most of these characters are not my creation.  
  
A Dagger Unseen – Chapter Two A West Wing Story  
  
by MAHC  
  
"Tell me everything," she had said. A demand. A request. A plea.  
  
And, damn it, he did. And when he was finished, she wished he hadn't.  
  
"What are we going to do?" she asked him, still numb from the shock, still trying to grasp the full impact of "the situation."  
  
For a moment, he didn't answer, merely stared past her. Then he squared his shoulders and hardened his jaw. "I'm going to Mass and you're going to stay here and wait for your family. After that, we'll have Christmas dinner and exchange presents, just like everyone else."  
  
His voice was confident, almost daring, but she wouldn't let him take the burden alone anymore. He had already done that for three wretched weeks.  
  
"I'm going, too."  
  
"Donna – "  
  
"I'm going, Jed."  
  
"No. "  
  
"We'll do whatever Ron thinks is best for protection," she conceded, knowing it had to be that way for everyone's sake. "But I'm going with you. You told Leo yourself. We can't shut down."  
  
A little of the boldness melted from his body as he closed his eyes tightly, then opened them again. "Donna, I don't know – Ron doesn't know enough to predict what might happen. He sure didn't see this coming." He gestured vaguely at the paper that lay on the coffee table. "This is dangerous. This – this terrifies me, Donna."  
  
It terrified her, too, even more so with his admission.  
  
His body straightened and he shook his head. "How could they not see him? How the hell did they not see? Son of a bitch! How did they not – "He stopped abruptly, words deliberate as if the idea was forming as he spoke. "Or did they see him? Did they see him and just not notice because – because it wasn't unusual? Because they see him everyday?"  
  
"What are you saying, Jed?" But she knew anyway, and the thought was almost too unbelievable to consider.  
  
He paced now, running a hand through his hair. "It has to be someone close. Someone familiar enough with the grounds. Someone no one would notice – "  
  
With trembling fingers, she lifted the paper, dreading to see it again, but needing the visual stimulation to think about how they could have gotten the picture.  
  
Jed glanced at her and gritted his teeth. "To get a shot like that, they'd have to be – damn it!"  
  
She was startled when he turned away from her, fists clenched, shoulders tense.  
  
"Jed?"  
  
But he waved her off with a quick motion that clearly asked for a minute or two. Finally, he exhaled heavily and faced her again, his eyes red and moist, his lips pressed tightly together. She fought off her own sob as she realized why he stepped away.  
  
"Oh, Jed," she breathed and held her arms out for him. Slowly, he moved into her embrace, giving his own strong comfort to her, as well. Somehow they would make it through this. Somehow, they would survive this nightmare. Somehow, they would be stronger for it.  
  
At least she told herself that, but right now, despite the insane threats, despite the horrifying evidence before them, she still needed to be in his arms, safe and secure, and warm.  
  
"I didn't lie to you," he whispered into her hair, an answer to a question never asked. "About the letter. I didn't lie." Tears touched his eyes again. "But – but there was more to it."  
  
Yes, indeed, there was, as she now knew.  
  
"I guess we're tempting fate, huh?" he asked, holding her hard against him, his voice wavering between humor and fear, his lips pressing to her ear.  
  
"Ron's out there," she told him. Surely they couldn't be safer? Surely.  
  
"Yeah. And who else? What kind of crazy – "  
  
He didn't finish, but it didn't matter. An insane person wanted to see their son dead for something he had never done. And, even though she knew it was crazy, knew this person was crazy, if anything happened to J.T., she would blame herself. She had caused this, she and Jed. Their sin.  
  
"Donna?"  
  
She looked up and saw his brows drawn down, his eyes dark.  
  
"Don't do it."  
  
"What are you – "  
  
"This is not your fault."  
  
Was she that transparent, or was he just getting better at reading her? Or maybe he was tuned in to her feelings because he was feeling the same thing.  
  
"If we hadn't – "  
  
"Shh. I said don't do it." He touched his lips to hers, soothing and gentle and loving.  
  
And she clung to him, letting his warmth flow through her, calm her, but she couldn't get rid of the vision from the horrible words and raw picture. Pulling away, she protested. "We can't. What if – what if someone's – "  
  
"There's no one here. It's just us."  
  
She knew that. Still, somehow it had happened already. Fighting her own brain every step of the way, she traced back to the note, still clutched in her hand. It was more picture than note, really; a photograph copied onto the paper, a little grainy from the photocopy process, but all too distinguishable, with a few words that together created a terrifying message: A twisted, determined stalker with access to the President and his family. And her mind echoed Jed's impassioned question – How the hell did they not see him?  
  
But he saw them. No doubt about that. He saw them in a way that no one else had seen them – until now. She tried not to imagine the faces of the secret service as they studied it, tried not to think about Leo seeing it. She blushed again just in the presence of her husband, the very man entangled with her in the shot.  
  
It must have been taken from outside the window of the Oval Office. There was no question about the timing: This had happened only once in that particular room. Even with the poor quality, it was clear enough. She was straddling his lap, her head thrown back in pleasure, his mouth on her breast, his hands at her hips, pushing her dress up. Memory told her it was taken only moments before he had hoisted her on the desk and really gotten serious. Even now, her body remembered the pleasure and tingled involuntarily with the sensation. But with that thought came another, a black realization. If there was one photo, there could be others, perhaps even more revealing. Even rawer. And this was just a copy. Where was the real one?  
  
The words were scrawled across the page, dripping with hate and insanity, threatening death, promising ruin. She read them again, trying to look at them without the deep emotions they ignited.  
  
"Sin is death. The product of sin must die. The world will know your sin." Red ink, a bloody message.  
  
"Do you think," she asked Jed, voice trembling at the impact of the sight, "that the papers have this?"  
  
The slight hesitation before he answered was enough to tell her what he really thought. But he said, "I don't know."  
  
"If they do – "  
  
"If they do, they do. There's no scandal here."  
  
She actually laughed, even though it wasn't really funny. "No. Just the President and First Lady screwing in the sacred chamber of the Oval Office."  
  
That wasn't like her, the crudeness, and his face showed his surprise. She waved off any comments. "Oh, I'm not worried about that, really. It will be humiliating, of course. Embarrassing for us, for the girls, for my folks."  
  
God, she had just thought of them. Her mother would die. Conversations over Rook at Marjorie Milsap's house would be decidedly awkward.  
  
He nodded. There was no contradicting that certainty, but at least he was kind enough not to remind her she had initiated the entire event, indeed, even insisted on it. With a deep breath, he stepped back from her and tilted his head toward the bathroom.  
  
"You gonna finish getting ready for church?"  
  
She grinned, ready for the reprieve. "Yeah. Give me a minute, okay?"  
  
But he caught her arm gently and drew her back. "When you're finished, would you mind adding this to your accessories?"  
  
She looked down as he took her left hand in his and slipped off the plain gold band she had only removed once, in the late, swollen days of pregnancy. "Jed – "  
  
But she fell silent as he pulled something from his pocket, two things, actually, and she felt the tears at her eyes when she realized what they were. The band slid back onto her finger, this time flanked by two narrower rings, their surfaces sparkling with diamonds and sapphires.  
  
"Merry Christmas," he whispered, leaning in to kiss her softly.  
  
For one shocked moment, she stared at the glittering stones. Then she flung her arms around his neck, kissing him hard, moving against his mouth with love, and gratitude, and building excitement. She felt his body answer her touch, felt his hips rub intimately against hers.  
  
Reluctantly, she drew back a little, forcing down the desire that leaped to the very surface of her skin. "They're beautiful," she told him, stroking his cheek with the back of her hand. "Thank you."  
  
He smiled, face lightening with the pleasure of making her happy. "I love you."  
  
And he did. She would never doubt that again.  
  
Now his eyes darkened a little, his jaw hardened. "Donna, it's going to be okay."  
  
She wanted to believe him, had to believe him. At least right now. At least in this moment. "Yeah."  
  
And she let him hold her for a good five minutes before she continued her preparations for mass.  
  
Church should be restorative, encouraging. She knew that, and usually it was, giving her the calm reflection with which to face the coming week. But even the reassurance of the Almighty couldn't quite remove the pulsing anxiety from her gut. Oh, things progressed normally enough. She had dutifully followed Jed in the ritual dipping of water, crossing herself when they entered. She had genuflected before they took their seats in the pew specifically reserved for the President of the United States.  
  
They proceeded uninterrupted through the Penitential Rite and the Gloria and were well into the Liturgy before her mind wandered again. What was happening in the world at that moment, while they were set apart in this holy place? J.T. was safe at the White House, with Tricia and a beefed-up contingent of Ron's handpicked agents. Jed had once again deferred to advice and allowed the tent to conceal their entry into the church.  
  
Physically, they probably could not be safer. But what other dangers lurked? Was The Star, their old nemesis, even now printing thousands of tabloids with the stark photo of their intimate encounter splashed across the front page? Would they leave the church, this place of worship and consecration, only to step into a vindictive expose that shouldn't be a scandal, but would be anyway?  
  
Would the Press at least give them Christmas Day? But she knew the answer to that.  
  
The priest had finished the first two readings and now moved to Luke for the third. Second chapter – the Christmas story. It drew her back for a moment, reminded her of the deeper power, of the ultimate strength, and she tried to draw on that – on Him.  
  
When he finished, the priest concluded with the expected formula, "This is the gospel of the Lord."  
  
Automatically, she answered, "Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ."  
  
They sat – when had she stood? – and settled in for the homily. With a smirk, she silently wished the priest eloquence. If he didn't deliver a sermon that satisfied the high standards of her husband, she would no doubt hear about it on the way home. He once told her that Abbey teasingly accused him of being an "oratorical snob." But Donna knew most of the time he was right. His voice was an instrument, a gift, and the ease with which he used that gift, with which he played the timbre and pitch and rhythm and volume of words, gave him little patience for those who chose to speak without having the talent for it.  
  
As if he sensed her thoughts, he slid a quick, knowing glance at her, his own lips curving in mutual amusement. Yes, she hoped the priest had practiced.  
  
Even in church, the President was the President, and any time aides pulled him out of the service, all eyes followed him, all minds wondered what national or international crisis loomed. Later, they would watch CNN and tell their friends they had been there when the President got "the word."  
  
It was human nature to anticipate the worst in such a situation, and Donna was no different than anyone else. So, in the middle of the homily, when Charlie slipped down the aisle and leaned in to whisper something to Jed, she tensed. His face showed no sign of alarm, no sudden emotion, but she wouldn't have expected that. He knew the importance of calm in front of his country. That just meant the quick squeeze he gave her hand, and the tight smile he left her with did nothing to alleviate her fear.  
  
The priest droned on, maddening in his monotonous tone, and she fought the urge to scream at him to shut up, to finish already so she could rush out and find her husband, make sure everything was all right. But he was oblivious to her need, and proceeded in a halting rhythm that lacked any flow or beat. If the issue had not suddenly become irrelevant, she would have dropped a tempting comment about it in the limo, just to get Jed started. But that seemed insignificant now as she waited, hearting pounding, for him to return.  
  
The footsteps drew closer. She closed her eyes, bracing for the touch at her shoulder. Drawing her eyes up, she saw Ron Butterfield looking down at her, his face smooth of any hints, as usual.  
  
"Mrs. Bartlet, come with me, please."  
  
Oh, God, she thought, and she really directed it at Him. The walk up the aisle seemed endless, with every eye now on her, speculating, contemplating. Calling out the President indicated any number of events or situations that merited his knowledge or decision. It was not necessarily an uncommon occurrence. But when it was deemed significant enough – or personal enough – for the First Lady to be involved, things took on an entirely different slant.  
  
Her first fears zeroed in on J.T., her innocent child. It suddenly occurred to her that they had trusted him to a relatively young, and new sitter. Of course, Tricia had been carefully vetted, had come highly recommended by several senators, both male and female. She didn't suspect any foul play from the girl herself. But what if something happened? What if she didn't know how to react?  
  
No. The agents were there. Logic told her things were fine. But that didn't keep her heart from pounding hard against her chest.  
  
What was it, then? Was Jed rescuing her so they could make their escape before the tabloids hit the stands? Before the wolves, having gotten a taste of blood, sank their teeth into them? Before they could be asked, right there on the steps of the House of God, about having sex in the Oval Office? About J.T.'s conception?  
  
These speculations came and went quickly, swimming through her thoughts like circling sharks. Which one would attack first?  
  
Finally, they slipped away from the onlookers, easing into a back room, an office apparently, with a large crucifix on the wall. Maybe that would come in handy, if she needed to lie prostrate at the feet of Christ in a moment.  
  
"Donna."  
  
Jed stepped away from the surrounding group and met her, taking her hands, drawing her into the room. Vaguely, she noted the presence of several unfamiliar dark suits. They bore the unpleasant scent of the FBI. She tried to read her husband's face, to brace herself for whatever he thought vital enough to pull her out of church to tell her. His eyes were guarded, wary, his jaw tight. She swallowed, the nausea rising in her throat, waiting for the words that would destroy her – or him, dreading news she couldn't accept.  
  
His hands clutched hers firmly, holding her in place. His voice was low, gentle, sad. "Baby, look, I've got some bad news." 


	3. Just A Plane Crash

POV: Donna Spoilers: None Rating: PG Disclaimer: These characters are not mine.  
  
A Dagger Unseen – Chapter Three A West Wing Story  
  
by MAHC  
  
Donna stared at her husband's face, a face she usually loved to watch. She had her favorite features: the strong jaw, the expressive mouth, the well- shaped nose, the tan skin, and the hair – always the hair. But now she didn't see any of those things. Now she just saw the eyes, and, instead of their usual twinkling blue mischief, they bore a sadness that had darkened them almost to gray.  
  
"I've got some bad news," he had said. "Bad news."  
  
"Bad news?" No, I don't want bad news. Don't give me bad news.  
  
But he didn't listen to her, seemed determined to do it anyway. Before she could pull away, before she could give in to the instinct to cover her ears, he said, "There's been another plane crash."  
  
A plane crash? A plane crash.  
  
Oh, Thank God. Just a plane crash.  
  
The sweet taste of relief flooded her stomach. It wasn't J.T. It wasn't Jed. It was just a plane crash. That pleasant sensation, though, was followed immediately by the bitter tang of guilt. She shouldn't be glad, shouldn't be happy. That was wrong. But she was. She was grateful.  
  
"Oh," she said, keeping the unseemly upbeat tone from her voice. "That's terrible."  
  
And it was, certainly. A plane crash. But as bad as that was just on its own, it took her a moment or two to realize why Jed might be so concerned about this particular accident, why he had been pulled from Christmas Mass to be informed about it.  
  
"Is it – do they suspect terrorism?" Just what they needed – what he needed.  
  
She expected a shrug, or maybe an angry nod. Instead, his jaw clenched once, and he clutched her hands tighter. "Donna," he said, voice low, reluctant. "The plane was out of O'Hare."  
  
Okay. Just like the first one. Was that a clue, a coincidence? But he seemed to be telling her something more, something she wasn't getting. He was disturbed, upset. Not that he shouldn't be but – "What does that – "  
  
"The plane's destination was Dulles," he explained, his eyes almost begging her to comprehend before he had to finish. "It was coming here."  
  
Dulles. From O'Hare? But that was – A sharp jolt of clarity struck her, stabbing with keen accuracy directly into her chest. She knew then what he was telling her. She understood the hesitance in his voice, the sorrow on his face.  
  
A plane from O'Hare to Dulles. "My parents," she choked out abruptly, a question and a statement all at once. "My parents' plane."  
  
"It was their flight, Donna," he confirmed, and she felt his hands squeeze hers hard before they moved around her back to draw her into his arms.  
  
With a nod, he cleared the room except for them. In a daze, she watched the others leave.  
  
"I'm so sorry, Baby," he said at her ear. "I'm so sorry."  
  
She leaned against him, head on his shoulder, but the truth just didn't quite register. Her parents' plane had crashed. It seemed unreal, just a statement. The significance of those words, the consequences of the moment were lost to her. Her brain could not – or would not – allow her to process it, so she stood there, enfolded in his embrace, clinically noting the brush of his fingers through her hair, the soft murmurings of comfort, the solid support of his body.  
  
But it made no sense. How could they be in a plane crash? They were coming for Christmas, coming to see their grandson, coming to complete her holiday. It was Christmas. How could their plane crash on Christmas?  
  
"Donna?" The alarm in Jed's voice drew her attention, and she realized she had fallen against him, had slid down his body, and he was easing her into a chair. "Charlie!"  
  
A glass of water touched her lips. She drank it obediently, absently, until it was pulled away.  
  
"What – how – " She didn't know what to ask, where to start. "Is everyone – are there any survivors?" But it was a plane crash. She knew the answer already.  
  
"No."  
  
Genuine grief lined her husband's face. It was one of the things she loved about him – his compassion, his empathy with his fellow humans. He hurt because he had lost family, too, but mostly he hurt because she hurt. Or at least she should hurt. Somehow, her numbed nerves fought off any attempt by her brain at realization. It would hit eventually, but not yet.  
  
"Donna?"  
  
He watched her carefully, his hands at her shoulders, supporting her still, holding her upright.  
  
"I'm – I'm okay."  
  
A lifted brow revealed his doubt.  
  
"You didn't answer me earlier," she reminded him suddenly.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Earlier. I asked if it was terrorism. You never answered me." She was so calm, so matter-of-fact. Was this how you dealt with tragedy? Was this how people got through desperate times?  
  
"Possibly," he answered with a heavy sigh. "Probably." Then he pulled her against him again and rocked gently, like she had seen him do to calm John Thomas. She gave into it, relaxed in the security of his strength, of his warmth.  
  
She should call someone. Do something. Gino? Where was he? Was he coming with them or from somewhere else? Why couldn't she remember that? Strange thoughts washed through her sluggish mind. Their newspaper would need canceling. And credit cards. What did you do when someone was killed? Their physical existence had ended, but how did you go about ending their financial and governmental presence? And why was she thinking of all this? Why wasn't she grieving?  
  
"Mister President?"  
  
Without raising her head she recognized the voice of Jed's Head of Security. Ron sounded tired, but she supposed he must be, with everything that had been happening. He was probably working on little sleep, searching for the threat to his boss's family.  
  
"Yeah." Jed hadn't moved either.  
  
"We have a call. A cell phone."  
  
"What?"  
  
"From the plane. A cell phone call."  
  
What did he mean? How could someone call from the plane crash? But Jed understood.  
  
"Names?"  
  
"No, sir. But a description, and there's some noise in the background that we might be able to distinguish."  
  
She still had not moved out of Jed's complete hold on her, did not want to. But he twisted a little now to look at Ron. "There's a recording?"  
  
"An answering machine. Somebody called Baltimore just before the crash, left a message. The FBI has it."  
  
"Okay." She felt her husband's muscles tense with reluctant withdrawal. "Donna – "  
  
"I'm okay," she whispered. Not true.  
  
"Are you ready to go back – "  
  
"Mister President?" New voice this time, but just as familiar.  
  
Jed's acknowledgement was strained. This time he stepped farther away, although one hand still touched her waist. "Yes?"  
  
Leo McGarry's lined face seemed even longer as he shifted his weight from one leg to another. "I'm sorry to interrupt, sir."  
  
"What is it, Leo?" The brittle tone gave clear evidence of her husband's tight emotions.  
  
The chief of staff glanced at her, his expression showing his uncertainty about what to say. What could he say? "Donna, I'm so sorry."  
  
She nodded absently. She would have to get used to that. So many would express their condolences. Strange how the mind can function apart from emotions. She felt nothing, had already found herself planning the funeral. What the music would be. How she would act. Her mother had a favorite dress – but then, she wouldn't need that, would she?  
  
Jed's jaw pumped. "I think we just want to be – "  
  
"There's a call from the White House. J.T. is sick."  
  
If there was any breath left in her lungs it left in a sudden explosive gasp. "Sick?" Common sense told her babies got sick. Colic, colds. But common sense had been cruelly twisted recently and she couldn't rely on it anymore. The void of feelings over the surreal news gave way to an almost overpowering fear.  
  
Jed had left her side and stepped closer to Leo. "Sick?" he asked, and she saw the stiffness in his shoulders, the same anticipation of bad news she felt. But his voice remained calm. "Is he running a fever?"  
  
Leo shook his head. "I don't know. One of the agents called and said that Tricia felt that Donna needed to come back."  
  
She had to go. Had to go now. Her baby was sick.  
  
But Jed's eyes had narrowed and he tilted his head in thought. "She said specifically that Donna needed to come back?"  
  
"Well, yeah. Donna is his mother, and – "  
  
"But she didn't say WE needed to come back? Just Donna."  
  
"What are you – "  
  
Ron moved into the scene, his tall shadow solidifying into prominence. "What are you thinking, Mister President?"  
  
Jed spun on his heel, hands raised to help him flesh out his idea. "I don't know. I don't know. It just – it's just strange. Just Donna needs to go back? But if we both go back, all my security goes with us. If it's just Donna – "  
  
Before he could finish, Ron was already shooting orders into his sleeve.  
  
"Jed?" Surely he wasn't suggesting what she thought he was suggesting.  
  
"Trina was vetted, right?" He asked, voice cranked up a level higher with barely controlled alarm. "We know all about her?"  
  
"Tricia," she corrected automatically. "And yes, she checked out with flying colors." But doubt tore at her confidence, and the burn of fear ate at her as his theory solidified. "Senator Yatcher's wife, Representative Yamato, Senator Levoiz – "  
  
"Those are all republicans," Leo noted, shrugging when they stared at him. "Well, they are."  
  
"My God, Leo," Jed said, open-mouthed. "You can't think that they would go so far as to – "  
  
It suddenly sounded plausible, and she lunged for Jed's arm, clutching it, dragging him to the door. "We've got to get back. We've got to get to J.T." She had never really been hysterical in her life, even through the cancer scare, but her body was getting away from her, threatening to strip her of any remaining will to control it.  
  
"Donna, stop." He grabbed her upper arms and squared her body with his. "Donna, it's okay." Turning to Ron, he snapped out his orders. "We're going back to the White House now."  
  
"But, sir – "  
  
"Now, Ron." He took one long stride toward the door and found his path blocked, respectfully somehow, but blocked, nevertheless.  
  
"Ron – "  
  
"You can't go, Mister President." A calm, level statement, as if he were not giving orders to the most powerful man in the world.  
  
"Get out of my way." Although Donna had heard Jed angry before, the hard edge of steel, dangerous in its inflection, was something that she had not yet witnessed. She would not have been at all surprised to see her husband take on his agent, despite the fact that Ron's entire body was probably classified as a weapon and the President didn't stand a chance.  
  
To his credit, the taller man kept his cool. "If it's a trap, sir, you could be walking into danger."  
  
"I don't care – "  
  
"Or taking Mrs. Bartlet into danger."  
  
That worked. The President stopped abruptly, falling back on his heels, arms still swinging with his momentum. "My son – "The audible ache in his voice ripped at her own pain, twisting their fears together.  
  
"I've already contacted Jonah," Ron told him, still blocking the doorway, just in case. "He's on his way."  
  
"But – "  
  
"I can't let you put yourself in danger, Mister President." He stressed the title, and Donna saw that that worked, too. A subtle reminder to Jed Bartlet that he was not only a husband and father; he was the leader of the free world. He did not have the discretion of sacrificing himself for personal reasons. He must think of the impact his death would have on an entire planet. She watched as that burden pushed down his shoulders and hardened his face.  
  
When he finally spoke, his voice was coiled as tightly as she had ever heard it. "Ron, I want you to go to the residence. I want to hear from you as soon as you get there and see my son. As soon as you get there, understand?"  
  
"Yes, sir," Ron replied, his voice just as crisp as his boss's.  
  
"The second you get there."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"And then you get us home."  
  
"Yes, Mister President."  
  
Then he was gone and they were alone again, except for Leo.  
  
"Really, Jed," he began, "you can't believe that – "  
  
It was Leo's misfortune that he happened to be the first one to speak. Donna heard Jed's restrained tones bend, quiver, then crack.  
  
"Why can't I believe it, Leo? Why not? I don't know what the hell to believe, anymore. My wife and two-month-old child are getting death threats. Someone has breeched the security of the White House – and our privacy, I might add – to take intimate and graphic photographs. North Korea is at the point of starting a nuclear war. And my in-laws have just been murdered by terrorists!"  
  
Oh God. Her parents. His passionate display somehow made the news fresh, sharp, and realization kicked her with a violence so strong that she sank toward the floor, arms wrapped around her stomach to stem the sudden nausea.  
  
"Jed!" She heard Leo's sharp cry as she fought vainly to hold on to consciousness.  
  
"Donna!"  
  
As the blackness took her, she was vaguely aware of her husband's face above her, guilt washing the anger away, fear cracking through the layer of wrath.  
  
"Donna? Baby?"  
  
With one last ironic thought, she found some selfish justice in that. Maybe he should feel guilty. Hadn't she told him she didn't want bad news in the first place? 


	4. Should We Just Get a Cab

POV: Donna Spoilers: None Rating: PG Disclaimer: Most of the characters are not mine. J.T., however, is.  
  
A Dagger Unseen – Chapter Four A West Wing Story  
  
by MAHC  
  
Oh God! How had this happened? Why had He let this happen? They were good people, weren't they? She tried to be compassionate, thoughtful, to do right, to do good, especially for those less fortunate. And Jed – Jed was the best man she knew. His entire life was dedicated to making the world better.  
  
Why, then, had God deserted them?  
  
Impossible sensations overwhelmed her: despair so sharp it made her stomach churn, an ache so deep it seemed to plunge to her very soul, a sadness so complete it oozed into every corner of her brain.  
  
It could not be. It just could not be. But there it was, right before her eyes, clawing at her sanity. She had fallen to her knees, still unable to move from the dreadful scene, staring in horror and terror as her husband, tears coursing down his cheeks, clutched the bloody, lifeless body of their son.  
  
Her world was over. Her happiness. Her life. How could she go on? How could she remain on a planet that sustained such creatures as those who would do this?  
  
Jed moaned through his sobs, a deep, torn sound that ripped into her stunned grief and made it all the more horrendous. His clothes were soaked now in their child's blood, his face smeared with the crimson life that no longer pumped through the infant's body. He was visibly broken, kneeling there on the nursery floor, refusing to hand over the baby to anyone, even Leo.  
  
"Jed," she choked out, not knowing what she was going to say after that. "Jed!"  
  
His eyes turned to her, tormented, haunted. "They killed him. They killed my son. Dear God, Donna, they killed him."  
  
He trembled as sweat ran down his face, mixing with the blood. She knew he would collapse any minute. He was a strong man, a man who could take physical pain stoically, a man who could stand against the mightiest forces the world could throw at him. But this – he couldn't stand this. He would fall, and she wasn't sure he would get back up. She wasn't sure she would get back up.  
  
"Jed." She tried again, reaching for him, for them.  
  
"Don't," he warned, his eyes wild. "Don't take him away."  
  
"Jed – "  
  
"Donna, please," he pleaded, his voice unrecognizable as Josiah Bartlet's, no longer warm, no longer strong, no longer commanding. Just crushed, agonized. "Please, Donna. Please. Don't take him away. Please, Donna. Donna – Donna – Donna – "  
  
"Donna!"  
  
Slowly, she became aware of a swimming sensation in her head and a persistent pressure around her hand. Someone held it in a firm grip. A breeze cooled her face, ruffled her hair rhythmically, blowing on her like a fan. Her heart fought to control its frantic race, and she chanced a peek past her dark world, opening her eyes, dreading to see what she had closed them against.  
  
Her husband was there, as before, but instead of clutching their dead child to his chest, he sat in a chair, her hand in both of his, his eyes neither wild nor terrified, merely worried.  
  
"Donna?"  
  
She looked around. They were still in the priest's office, still waiting, apparently, for Ron Butterfield. Dear God! Thank you! It wasn't real. But a darker voice added the words "not yet." Renewed fear bolted her upright.  
  
"Hey, it's okay," Jed said, brushing back the hair that had fallen over her forehead.  
  
"J.T.?" Please tell me it's good. Please.  
  
He shook his head. "Not yet. Should be soon." His voice was steady, but she felt his hand tremble under hers and a closer look clearly showed the fear in his eyes.  
  
The other terror of her day came back to her. "The plane. Have they – "  
  
"No. It'll be a while before – before we'll know much more."  
  
What more was there to know, she thought bitterly. The plane crashed. Her parents were dead. But even beneath the anger, she knew there was more. There was evidence of an attack, not just on her parents, but on the country, as well.  
  
She started to tell him she understood that he needed to go, to take care of things, but before she could, the door opened, screened by no fewer than four agents. A young woman, neat and crisp, strode in.  
  
"Mister President?"  
  
He was already on his feet. "Yes?"  
  
"Agent Butterfield has secured the White House, sir. He sent word that you can return now."  
  
Donna could see the restraint Jed showed in not grabbing the agent's shoulders. She fought the same impulse. "My son?"  
  
"Is safe, sir. Agent Butterfield will explain when you arrive."  
  
Safe. Safe. She couldn't believe it. She had gone from tragedy to giddiness in the span of a few seconds, and even though some of her emotions were the result of a dream, they were no less real.  
  
"All right." He turned to her, jaw clamped hard in an effort to control his own reaction. "Are you all right?" he asked, extending his hand to help her up.  
  
She nodded, eyes glistening. What a damned marvelous Christmas this had been. Threats, a stalking voyeur, the plane crash. But J.T. was all right. He was all right. She hung on to that truth, to that beam of light against all the surrounding darkness. And Jed. She hung on to him, too, letting his strength bolster her, giving her the will to rise, both physically and emotionally. She could do this. As long as she had him, she could do it.  
  
The ride back in the limo might have been long; she wouldn't have known. Her brain was too busy fluttering through the recent events, replayed like flickering old movies. She vaguely remembered her face pressing into Jed's chest, his arms firm around her. She didn't really remember getting out of the car, or walking into the White House. But she must have. And had Jed held her hand the entire time? Had he broken into a run with her as they raced up the stairs, too impatient even to consider using the elevator? All of that passed by in a blur, and her world did not return to focus until they arrived at the residence.  
  
Breathless, they burst through the doors, startling those waiting there: a stern-looking Ron Butterfield, a bemused, but pleased Leo, who had followed Ron, and a stunned, terrified Tricia. If this girl had evil plans for the son of the President of the United States, she sure hid it well. She had gone bone white, and her lips trembled.  
  
Donna's eyes took them all in quickly, then searched for her true goal. She found him, squirming, unsatisfied, in the arms of Admiral Hackett, who only too happily handed him over to his mother.  
  
The hole that had earlier been ripped through her heart closed, filled with love, and gratitude, and joy. She held him tight, which only provoked further protests from him, but she didn't care.  
  
Jed now stood toe-to-toe with the unfortunate nanny, and Donna saw her flinch at the dangerous anger flushing his face. But when he spoke, his voice remained low, controlled.  
  
"What happened here?"  
  
She opened her mouth to speak, eyes shifting between the stern figure of Ron Butterfield and the intense form of the President. Flanked by such intimidation, she didn't seem to be able to enunciate anything intelligible.  
  
"The President asked you a question, m'am," Ron noted unnecessarily.  
  
His harsh reminder only made things worse. She cowered visibly, taking a step back from her inquisitors.  
  
Then a surprise. Jed called her name quietly – and the right name at that. "Tricia."  
  
That seemed to give her the prompt needed. "M-mister President," she stuttered, straightening, unleashing a nervous torrent of information. "I'm sorry I caused – it's just that J.T. was running a fever and – well, I wasn't sure what you – I figured Mrs. Bartlet would want to – to – "  
  
"Doctor?"  
  
The tall admiral nodded confirmation. "He's a little feverish, sir. One- hundred and one. Nothing really dangerous, but, of course, you don't want to take chances. Looks like a touch of congestion – "  
  
Jed spun to face Ron. "Anything else? Any other signs of – "  
  
"No, sir," Ron assured him. "Nothing unusual or out of the ordinary. I believe things are – in order here, sir."  
  
"You mean, there's no – "  
  
Ron stopped him before he gave too much away to the confused woman. "No, sir."  
  
They all turned back to Tricia, who looked as if she would be perfectly happy to melt into the floor, given that option. She kept swinging her gaze back and forth from Jed to Ron, perhaps wondering which one of them was actually going to operate the machine that sucked all the knowledge from her brain before they sent her to some secret labor camp in Nicaragua.  
  
"All right, then," Jed said finally, his voice strained with forced nonchalance. "Thank you, young lady, for your diligence."  
  
He received a blank stare in response. "Sir?"  
  
"We're – done here. Thank you for your help. Why don't you go home to spend Christmas with your family?"  
  
Donna saw the relief surge through the younger woman, mixed with a distinctly nauseated expression. After a brief pause, the nanny nodded and headed for the door, not able to scramble out of there fast enough. She had taken her President's suggestion as an order, which it probably was.  
  
Looked like time for a new nanny search. She doubted Tricia would be interested in taking a chance on going through something like that again.  
  
"There was nothing?" Jed asked Ron again, voice a bit incredulous.  
  
"We're clear, Mister President," the agent repeated patiently. "She apparently simply wanted Mrs. Bartlet to check on him because he was sick." Did she hear compassion in that even tone? "Everything is all right, sir." Yep. Definite compassion.  
  
Sighing, Jed said, "Okay. Thanks, everyone. Good work."  
  
They took this as dismissal – and it was intended that way – and exited. All but Ron, who lingered uneasily at the door.  
  
"Yeah?" Jed invited, realizing the agent had something to say.  
  
"As soon as I have word on the crash – "  
  
"Yeah." Jed nodded, cutting him off before he could finish. Donna was grateful for the intent, but it didn't matter. She'd have to face it sometime.  
  
With a sour laugh, she said, "Merry Christmas," to her husband, who stepped forward to take her and J.T. in his arms.  
  
She heard the pain in his voice when he spoke. "I'm sorry Donna. I can't tell you how sorry. This is all my fault."  
  
Vaguely, she recalled thinking maybe it was his fault, but not for the legitimate reasons he was about to name. "Your fault? How do you figure?"  
  
"How do I not figure?" He pulled back a little, but his eyes wouldn't meet hers. "Start with the fact that if we had gone to New Hampshire for Christmas instead of staying here, they would have been on a different flight – "  
  
"Shh – "His guilt allowed her to press her own pain back and give him comfort. "That's nobody's fault except the terrorists."  
  
"Well, hell. There's another reason," he laughed bitterly, pacing in front of the window and running a hand through his hair. "The terrorists' strike in the first place. All because I wouldn't let – because America does not negotiate with – "  
  
"But we don't Jed. We can't. You can't tell me you would ever consider that."  
  
Not acknowledging her point, he continued. "What about J.T.? Threats, stalkers, damned righteous bastards saying he's a sin. Nobody would care if I weren't President. Nobody would give one single damn if I were still an economics professor. "  
  
Now he turned to her, his fingers pressing hard into her upper arms, his face lined with blame. "I should have been a gentleman, Donna. I shouldn't have taken advantage of you – "  
  
"Josiah Bartlet!"  
  
He stopped, startled at her address.  
  
"What are you talking about, taking advantage? If you recall, I was the one who took advantage of you."  
  
He blushed. That was true.  
  
"And if you were an economics professor, I would probably not have any idea who you were. And we would never have gotten together. And J.T. would not exist."  
  
She wasn't sure if she was getting through, but she plunged ahead anyway. "And do you believe J.T. is a sin? Do you really feel like he is the product of some evil act?"  
  
"No," he muttered, "of course not – "  
  
"Would you change anything that happened between us? Would you have wanted to wait if I hadn't pushed you?" One hand touched his cheek, forced his face to turn toward hers.  
  
A sheepish smile curved his lips and the harsh lines softened. "I don't think I could have waited, Donna. I almost exploded as it was, I wanted you so much."  
  
"And I wanted you. I still want you. Is it my fault, then? Did I make J.T. a sin?" His illogical blame of himself had made her realize how ridiculous it was to dwell on something neither of them could change.  
  
He looked at her, and she watched the confidence smooth over him again, felt his body tighten as he regained power over it. "Things might come out in the press," he reminded her. "Will probably come out."  
  
The photo, he meant. She didn't care and told him so.  
  
"Insinuations, outright accusations," he added.  
  
"About what?"  
  
"J.T.'s conception."  
  
"Don't care."  
  
He lifted a brow, tilted his head. "You tricked me into marrying you because you were pregnant. You blackmailed me."  
  
"Already seen that one."  
  
"I robbed the cradle, got you pregnant, then 'did the right thing."  
  
She smirked. That was too close to what Josh thought at first. She had never told Jed. Never planned to. Instead, she deflected it. "I was after a 'Sugar Daddy.'"  
  
He winced. "I promised you fame, riches, status – "  
  
"Great sex," she added, grinning.  
  
He blushed and grinned back, then sobered, wrapping both arms around her waist. After a long pause, he asked, "You ready for this?"  
  
"I'm ready." She was.  
  
"Okay." He kissed his son's head and stroked the blonde hair. "In the meantime, we can wait here until Ron has word of – until Ron has word."  
  
She swallowed past the lump in her throat and nodded, still sure that the real trauma, the true breakdown would come much later, after she had dealt with the initial shock. Would she have to identify the bodies? Would there even be bodies to identify? Her own body stiffened in dread of that gruesome duty.  
  
"I'll go," he whispered into her hair. "I'll do it."  
  
Had she said that aloud? She didn't think so, but he seemed to know what she was thinking anyway. Maybe he was thinking the same thing.  
  
"It'll be – it'll be a crime scene, won't it? The thought had just occurred to her. "Will they release them?"  
  
He considered that and shook his head. "I don't know. They'll have to at some point. When they do, I'll go."  
  
Just one of the things she loved him for. He did the hard things.  
  
"Okay." After another pause, she adjusted J.T. against her shoulder and asked, "Do you need to be somewhere right now?" Surely at such a time he had important things to do. "The Sit Room?"  
  
"I'm okay. I'll stay here with you until – "  
  
"I'm okay," she insisted, pulling back to look at him. And for the moment, she was. Her baby was safe. That would sustain her for a while.  
  
He smiled, keeping his hold on her. "Leo will get me when he needs me."  
  
"Jed – "  
  
"He will. You kicking me out?" The smile was gentle, teasing, and she was reminded of simpler times when it was just the two of them flirting over a Trivial Pursuit board, and that smile had seduced her – with no resistance whatsoever – into his arms, into his bed, into his heart.  
  
"Nah. I'll let you stay – if you're good." Somehow, beneath the pain and fear, she found the ability to tease back.  
  
"But you already told me, my dear, that I'm ALWAYS good," he drawled, pulling her down on the sofa, careful not to dislodge his sleeping son.  
  
They lay there for a long time, content with just the touch, not speaking, not moving. Soon Ron would call, or Leo, and break up their serenity. Soon she would have to face the hard reality of her parents' death. Soon Jed would have to make a decision over how to respond to the terrorist attack. Soon they would both deal with the consequences of a public revelation of their pre-marital relationship. Soon another threat would be made against their child, or her, or all of them.  
  
But for the moment, they simply gathered each other in comforting arms and waited, building strength for what was soon to come.  
  
The abrupt ring of the phone jerked her from his arms, jostled the infant into whimpers. She didn't remember closing her eyes, didn't know how long she had slept. But her body woke instantly. Thrusting J.T. into Jed's grasp allowed her full access to the receiver, and she lifted it, wanting to hear what Ron had to say directly. Wanting his exact words, his frank confirmation of the tragedy. She wasn't sure why, but she needed to hear.  
  
But it wasn't Ron's level voice that greeted her. Not even close.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Hi, Sweetheart. Listen, I'm sorry we're late. Long story, but we can tell you over dinner. Are you sending someone or should we just get a cab? It's no problem, except that it IS Christmas, and they're a little hard to grab – "  
  
It couldn't be. It absolutely could not be.  
  
But she had listened to that voice for 30 years, and it was.  
  
"Mom?" 


	5. Company at the Arctic Circle

POV: Donna Spoilers: "20 Hours in LA" Rating: R Disclaimer: The characters of Donna's parents, her brother, and J.T. Bartlet are mine. All others were created by Aaron Sorkin and belong to him (I guess they still do.).  
  
A Dagger Unseen – Chapter Five A West Wing Story  
  
by MAHC  
  
Life was unpredictable, that was for sure. And in the past 24 hours, Donna Moss Bartlet's life had surged through way too many episodes of unpredictability for her comfort. She perched on the sofa in the residence, one hand fingering a rosary, the other anchored in her mother's clasp. Her father stood by the fireplace, his grandson cradled in his arms. She had heard the story twice now and still could not really believe they had been so lucky.  
  
Remnants of Christmas dinner scattered the table, festive tunes played in the background, and the family had pushed back from their meal to lounge in their living room just like millions of other average Americans who lived on Elm Street or Oak Lane, settling in on their rare day off to catch a college bowl game on television.  
  
Except these weren't average Americans. Instead of Elm Street, they lived on Pennsylvania Avenue. Instead of kicking back in his Lazy Boy and watching football, her husband was hunkered down in the Situation Room with the National Security Advisor, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, his Chief of Staff, and head of the NTSB. And it would be another two years before he could look forward to any days off.  
  
There was no one else there. The planned festivities with Leo and Mallory never materialized. Jed's best friend and his daughter chose not to interrupt family time they first thought would be spent in mourning, and by the time they received the miraculous news, Mallory had already made other arrangements with her mother. Just as well. Donna wasn't sure she was up to additional conversation. Leo, of course, would have been there anyway, by Jed's side as he was all morning and now in the Sit Room. That left only her parents, J.T., and her.  
  
"So Marjorie Milsap saved your lives by being a busybody?" she paraphrased, still amazed at the break fate had given them.  
  
"I suppose you could say that," her mother chuckled. No one had been more stunned than her parents to hear that they were supposed to be dead. "If she hadn't been jabbering on about that ridiculous tabloid story she wouldn't have locked her keys in the car and we wouldn't have been late to the airport."  
  
"I still don't understand why you didn't get on your original flight, since it was delayed anyway," Donna asked. "Don't get me wrong, I'm glad, but – "  
  
"The airlines had already given us tickets on another flight – first class this time. We couldn't pass that up, could we?"  
  
"No, Mom. You couldn't." Her parents would never change. Their son-in- law was the President of the United States and they still traveled coach.  
  
"When is Gino getting in?" Another blessing that her brother had not been able to make it earlier. He was driving from Missouri where he had spent a few days visiting a buddy from his old unit.  
  
"Later tonight, he said," her father reported, not looking up from his grandson's face. "I called him as soon as we realized he'd – "  
  
"Yeah." At least he had been spared the awful, crushing pain of thinking their parents had been killed.  
  
"How terrible," her mother said again, shaking her head. "I can't believe how close we were to being on that plane."  
  
Donna patted her hand. "But you weren't. That's what's most important."  
  
"But we could have been."  
  
"One-hundred and eighty-two other people can't say the same thing."  
  
They turned as a new voice interrupted, its hard tone evidence of the stress its possessor was enduring. When he saw the faces, though, he let his gaze fall. "I'm sorry."  
  
"Hey," she greeted softly, rising to take her husband's hands. Fatigue and regret lined his face, but he smiled at her touch.  
  
"Hey."  
  
"You okay?"  
  
"Sure." He didn't mean it.  
  
"Okay." Neither did she. "Any confirmations?"  
  
"The NTSB has evidence."  
  
Dear God. They had all suspected, but no one wanted to believe it. "Terrorism?"  
  
He nodded, pressing his lips together tightly. "Donna, they think – " Sighing, he glanced toward his in-laws. "They think the plane was targeted because – "He couldn't say it, but she realized suddenly what he knew.  
  
Sick. She felt sick to her stomach and saw her parents' expressions sink as they comprehended the same thing.  
  
"Because we were supposed to be on it," her father finished weakly, holding J.T. even tighter as if protecting him from the harsh reality.  
  
Again, Jed nodded.  
  
"Oh my," her mother breathed, drawing a trembling hand to her forehead. "Oh my. We were responsible for – "  
  
"No." The voice of the President stopped her immediately. "No, you were not responsible."  
  
Donna knew where he was going with this, but couldn't stop him, wouldn't have been able to persuade him to think differently anyway.  
  
"I'm responsible. It's my fault."  
  
There it was, that damned sense of duty, of burden. Everything in the world was his fault, or at least he seemed to think so. The sad thing was that he was very often right. The leader of the free world impacts widely and completely. "A human starting gun," Jed had once called himself. Unfortunately, it was too often true.  
  
She put a hand on his arm, felt the muscle hard and tight beneath her touch. As he turned toward her, she flinched a bit at the bright pain in his eyes, knowing there was little she could do to dim it.  
  
"What kind of operation is this?" she wondered aloud before she thought. "Who could have such widespread connections that they can cause a plane crash and just as easily be a threat from inside the White House? What do they want?"  
  
"What?" Her mother had stood, hand at her throat. "What are you talking about, Donna?"  
  
Jed looked at her sharply and she realized what she revealed.  
  
Her father stepped closer. "What are you saying? What kind of threat?"  
  
When she didn't answer, he made a move toward Jed, the first time he had ever taken any kind of confrontational stance with his son-in-law, a man only a few years his junior. "There have been threats?" he demanded, unconcerned with protocol. "On you?"  
  
"Dad – "she tried, but he would not be distracted.  
  
"Threats to whom, Mister President?"  
  
Even in the tension, her husband's mouth curled into a slight smile. "Mister Moss, I'd be pleased if you called me 'Jed'."  
  
Not giving one inch, her father repeated, "Threats to whom, Jed?"  
  
Sensing the reluctance on Jed's part to hurt his in-laws with the bitter truth, Donna stepped forward, physically coming between the two men. "To all of us, Dad. To me, to Jed – even to J.T."  
  
Silence sharpened the air in the room. Her parents stared at them, too horrified even to think of a comment. Finally, her father drew a deep breath and handed J.T. over to her mother.  
  
"I think you'd better tell us the whole story." It was a soft demand, but a demand, nevertheless.  
  
She glanced at Jed. He wasn't accustomed to taking orders, but his expression told her he would acquiesce to his father-in-law.  
  
Jaw muscles flexing, he began relating the events that had created their weeks of tension and fear. Hearing it all again made it seem even more bizarre, even more unbelievable. But there they were, facing a menace no one has suspected was so immense only the day before.  
  
He blushed as he related the accusations of sin for the premarital sex that had created J.T. He grimaced as he briefly touched on the tension he had inadvertently caused by trying to keep the threats from Donna. And he faltered when he came to the latest situation.  
  
"There's a second letter," he said, clearing his throat nervously. Donna blanched at what was coming. These were her parents, after all. "A picture, really, with a caption," Jed clarified, although no one had asked for clarification.  
  
"Of?" he father prompted.  
  
After an uncomfortable pause, Jed said, "Of Donna and me. It's rather – intimate."  
  
Her mother clutched at her throat. "Dear Lord. Do you mean someone had access to your room? How could that happen?"  
  
Could there be a more embarrassing moment, Donna wondered, as Jed's flush matched her own.  
  
"We – uh – we weren't in the Residence," he explained.  
  
Her father's brow lifted in question.  
  
Might as well just blurt it out, she figured. It couldn't sound any worse. "We were in the Oval Office," she announced boldly. Okay, maybe it could sound worse. Jed closed his eyes.  
  
"I had just been released by the doctor for sex, and we hadn't been together for seven weeks, and Jed only had thirty minutes, and neither of us really could wait – "  
  
"Donna – "Her husband interrupted, shaking his head. "Too much information."  
  
One look at her parents told her he was right. "Well, anyway, someone was outside the window. Someone who must belong on the White House grounds or they would never have made it there."  
  
Mercifully, Jed finished with information on the plane crash and the latest findings. When he finished, the room remained silent, except for the sweet sucking noises as J.T. comforted himself with a pacifier. After a moment, her father closed his eyes and whispered an old, but effective prayer.  
  
Jed echoed it, but further comments were lost by the abrupt entrance of Ron Butterfield, his appearance gaining everyone's immediate attention.  
  
Even the bland face could not completely hide the agent's agitation. Something else had happened. Instinctively, Jed moved toward him, and Ron leaned over to whisper in his ear.  
  
"Let me see," Jed ordered softly, but they all heard it, nevertheless.  
  
Reluctantly, Butterfield took in the rest of the room's inhabitants, but handed over a sheet of paper to his boss, then retreated one step to give him a moment to digest its contents.  
  
Donna watched her husband's expression shift and her heart pounded when she realized she had seen that very look much too recently – just that morning. It was a disturbing blend of pale fear and dark anger.  
  
Within seconds, every eye in the room had found him, but he didn't notice. Hand shaking so much that the paper clutched in it rattled in the continued silence, he spun to face the head of his Secret Service.  
  
For a moment, the two men held gazes, wise souls in the midst of the ignorant. But the brief connection shattered with the fierce eruption that followed. Donna had heard Jed curse before, usually nothing more severe than the most common epithets, maybe a "son of a bitch" occasionally. But the burning bit of profanity that exploded from between his gritted teeth shocked them all. To have prompted such a violent expression, that sheet of paper must hold dire news, indeed.  
  
"Jed?" she braved quietly, glancing at Ron for some indication that she was not taking too much of a risk with that attempt.  
  
"Mrs. Bartlet," he said, stepping toward her, "I don't think you need to – "  
  
But he stopped instantly when the Presidential hand lifted. "No." The tone, softer now, was nonetheless strained. "She needs to know." Her husband turned toward her and the anguish on his face set her blood facing again. "No more secrets, Donna. I promised you."  
  
With only a short hesitation, he held out the paper. Swallowing, she took it and stared at a strange collage of sick and horrifying photos. At the top left was a UPI picture of the plane crash out of O'Hare, probably downloaded from an Internet news site. Below stretched the caption "Sorry for your loss." Forcing herself to stay silent, she let her eyes drop to the other pictures. Just below was a portrait of their family, one of the prints taken just before Thanksgiving. She held J.T. in her arms while Jed pressed a gentle kiss against her temple. But the idyllic scene was marred grotesquely by the slash of red across their faces, like claws gouging deep into their joy. She wanted to crush it in her hands, wanted to hurl it into the fire and watch it twist and writhe in the flames. But she could not. And she could not keep her gaze from moving on, despite the nausea that rose in throat. The final image unnerved her so much that she dropped the paper, crying out in dismay. Jed caught her arm and drew her to him, but that comfort could not dispel the vision that was emblazoned on her brain. It had been taken at church – IN the church – somehow – at Christmas mass. Just that morning. It focused on Jed and her, but he was the center of the photo, his head bowed in prayer. And on the left side of his chest, directly over his heart, someone had drawn a target that dripped red. The caption chilled her: "Hypocrite. You had your warnings. Pay the price for your sin."  
  
She shook violently against him, terrified. By now her parents had picked up the sheet and stood, petrified, staring at it.  
  
"Okay, that's it," Ron said softly, "we're going into lockdown. Mister President, you and your family are not safe."  
  
"Not safe here, Ron?" Jed managed to choke out. "Not even here?"  
  
The agent hesitated just a moment, but when he spoke, uncharacteristic emotion clouded his tone. "I'm sorry, sir. This is a viable threat against the President of the United States. I don't have a choice."  
  
"I'm not going to the bunker, Ron." There was steel in that tone.  
  
"Mister President – "  
  
"I'm not going. You find a way to secure us here. Bring out the heavy artillery if you have to, but I'm not going to the bunker."  
  
Two immovable forces stood toe to toe. For sheer physical presence, Ron would have won hands down, but there was more to this battle than that. Jed Bartlet had power of his own, power that didn't come solely from his position. Finally, the intensity in those famous blue eyes took the day and the agent backed down. Donna thought this might be an historic moment.  
  
"All right. We will be in lockdown, Mister President," he said. "No one enters or leaves except on my word."  
  
After a moment, his boss conceded that compromise. "All right."  
  
"Gino?" Donna remembered suddenly.  
  
"Yes, m'am," Ron confirmed. "We'll take care of him."  
  
She wasn't exactly sure what that meant, but surely they'd allow him in.  
  
"It is advisable that you go downstairs, Mister President, at least until we can complete the additional security."  
  
She saw her husband stifle his impulse to refuse, then acknowledge the request with a curt nod. But before they could be led deeper into the vast underground labyrinth of the White House, she stooped down and snatched up the evil photos.  
  
"Donna," Jed began, but she held up her hand to stop him.  
  
"Wait." An idea was forming, a little hazy still, but it was something. "This picture."  
  
"Baby, give me that," he said, extending his hand. "You don't have to look – "  
  
She pulled away. "No. Listen. This middle picture, the one of all of us."  
  
Ron stepped closer. "What about it, Mrs. Bartlet?"  
  
"It was taken just before Thanksgiving."  
  
"Yeah?" Jed acknowledged.  
  
"Well – "She paused, realizing her revelation would spoil a minor surprise, but deciding this was more important. She turned to Jed. "One of your presents is my favorite shot that the photographer took that day. I'm sorry. It was going to be a surprise."  
  
He smiled gently, then prodded, "Go on."  
  
"He brought me all the choices of shots, at least I thought they were all. But this one wasn't with them."  
  
"You're sure?" Ron asked.  
  
"Yes. I remember them all. I thought they were all the proofs, but this was not one he showed me."  
  
"What's his name?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"The photographer," the agent prompted urgently. "What's his name?"  
  
"Ah. Tom. No, Tony. Tony Far – Farlow. No, that's not right."  
  
"Donna," Jed encouraged, unable to keep quiet.  
  
"Fargood. Farside. FarWELL! That's it! Fahrwell."  
  
Before she had drawn another breath, the agent whirled to face his boss.  
  
"Find him," Jed ordered, eyes snapping. "You find that son of a bitch."  
  
But Ron was gone already.  
  
Mercifully, Ron declared the White House secure within an hour and a half, and the First Couple, along with J.T. and her parents, were allowed to return to the Residence. By that time, the Christmas spirit had deserted them, and they chose simply to retire for the evening in the hopes that the next day would bring more answers and maybe some relief.  
  
As far as she knew, Tony Fahrwell had not been located yet, and the NTSB was still sitting on its evidence, so the media continued their own speculations. The White House remained strangely silent on any of the day's events, even the information that Donna Bartlet's parents had been on the downed flight. And the silence merely fed the stories that grew wilder with each undisputed claim.  
  
Finally allowed back in their own bedroom, Donna gave J.T. his night feeding and laid him gently in the crib in the room next door, satisfied that the heavy forces of secret service agents would not even let a mouse sneak past their fortress. And while that made her feel much better about her son's protection, she was a little unsure about the impact of the increased numbers outside her door. Despite the events of the day, she planned to enjoy another evening of desire, still making up for seven weeks of abstinence, and she really didn't need an audience.  
  
There was only one catch – the object of her desire was back in the Sit Room being briefed on more crash information as well as North Korea's latest step toward nuclear capability. Ignoring her body's anticipation, she thumbed through The Ladies Home Journal, then Redbook, Architectural Digest, Entertainment Weekly, and finally, out of desperation, People. For her troubles she discovered the best way to entice her husband into bed – completely unnecessary information for her – the latest fad diet, how to dress up windows, the Christmas plans of all the stars of Friends, and yet another account of the late JFK Jr.'s enigmatic marriage.  
  
Just when she debated giving in to the heaviness that tugged at her eyelids, the door eased open and Jed slipped in, lifting his chin slightly to see if he evoked a response from her. Smiling, she sat up and opened her arms to him.  
  
"Hey."  
  
He sat wearily on the bed, allowing himself to be folded in her embrace. "You okay?"  
  
"Yeah. You?"  
  
"Sure." He was lying again, but she didn't push it.  
  
"Any news?"  
  
He nodded. "They got into Fahrwell's apartment in Foggy Bottom."  
  
Please be good. "And?"  
  
"He apparently hasn't been there for a couple of days."  
  
Damn. "So a dead end?"  
  
"Well – "  
  
"What?"  
  
"They found the proofs of the photos, plus more shots of – of us."  
  
That sick feeling crept back into her stomach. "From the Oval – "  
  
"Yeah. They're, well, they're – "  
  
"Explicit?"  
  
He blushed even though they were alone. These must be something. "Yeah."  
  
"The church shot?"  
  
"Nothing on that, yet."  
  
"But it had to be somebody who was there. Somebody who had a damned good view." How could anyone have gotten in?  
  
"I don't know. They're checking it out. Could have been hiding anywhere."  
  
"Or they could have been in plain sight." She sighed. They wouldn't solve this mystery tonight anyway. "How many of the pictures did they find?"  
  
"Twenty-three exposures, including the one sent to us."  
  
A sharp burst of anxiety shot up her spine. "Twenty-three?"  
  
Rubbing a hand across the back of his neck, he nodded absently. Didn't he understand?  
  
"Where's the twenty-fourth?"  
  
His head shot up. "What?"  
  
"The twenty-fourth, Jed. Most rolls have 24 or 36 exposures. One's missing."  
  
It hit him then and she saw the alarm on his face even as he tried to answer calmly. "Maybe he didn't take the last one. Or maybe it didn't develop. Or – "  
  
"Or maybe it's on its way to the Associate Press right now," she finished with a moan. "Oh God!"  
  
He clutched her hands in his, his warmth settling her a little. "Listen, Donna. It may not even exist. Don't think about that. The FBI is investigating. There's nothing we can do right now, anyway. You've been through too much today to add one more crisis, all right?"  
  
"But – "  
  
"No."  
  
"What if it's published – "  
  
"Who cares?"  
  
"How can you say that?"  
  
"Who cares, Donna? You are my wife. I can make love to you if I want to. Don't you think everyone knows we have sex? J.T.'s proof of that." He teased, but his grin was forced.  
  
"But in the Oval Office, Jed – "  
  
"Hush. I said don't worry about it. I'll stay here with you. If they find out anything new, they'll let me know." His eyes were soft, loving, and she melted into them, pushing back the fears, needing to lose herself in him tonight.  
  
"Does that mean you're coming to bed?" She made sure her voice held the blatant invitation.  
  
He heard it. "If you want me to. Last night was pretty – "  
  
"Wonderful," she finished for him. "It was wonderful."  
  
"I'll be more careful – "  
  
"Don't worry about that."  
  
"But I will," he assured her, leaning in to kiss her, his hand brushing a taut nipple that pushed against the golden satin of her gown.  
  
"But not too careful," she asked, stretching her neck as his lips slid down her throat.  
  
"Merry Christmas, Baby," he whispered before he slipped the gown off her completely.  
  
"Merry Christmas," she returned, reaching for his belt.  
  
Donna moaned softly under her husband's touch, always grateful – and a little surprised – by the variety of skills within his repertoire. Even as the memories of the previous night's sizzling, uncontrolled passion still burned her cheeks, she relaxed as he approached with an entirely different strategy, teasing her with the gentle dance of kisses across her stomach, the fluttering tickle of fingers over her arms. Teeth nipped at her earlobe, lips caressed her neck. Instead of the immediate ignition of desire that had boiled quickly to overload yesterday, tonight was a slow simmer that heated steadily and evenly, but promised just as fiery an end.  
  
He murmured in her ear, beautiful words of love and passion, even as his hands wandered over her intimate parts, entwining the most significant sexual organ – her mind – with the rest of her body. She needed this – not just the physical release, but the mental distraction from the complications and fear that had invaded their world. She needed to feel the raw, healing pleasure that came from the act of intercourse, but she also needed to feel the tenderness and love that no one but her husband could give her.  
  
And he was doing an excellent job, she reflected, on both fronts. Chill bumps prickled her skin as he slid his tongue the length of her body and back up, detouring occasionally to devote a little extra attention in certain key areas. With the growing urge to feel him inside, she tried coaxing him up with her legs, but he refused to increase the pace, made her wait, teased her with deliciously cruel moments of ecstasy that didn't quite take her over the edge – not just yet.  
  
"Jed – "she groaned, arching toward his touch.  
  
"I'm here, Baby," he whispered. "I'm here."  
  
His breath warmed her skin, moistened by his tongue and her own exertions. It was becoming increasingly difficult not to force herself onto him, but she was determined to let him lead her wherever he wanted. When he finally raised above her, she spread her legs to welcome him, sighing as he pushed in slowly, keeping the pace steady. She watched his face as their bodies merged, holding his gaze as he moved deeper, and she concentrated on the incredible sense of satisfaction, on the sensation of being completely filled with him.  
  
Their abdomens brushed together when he moved forward, the hair that curled on his tickling her smooth skin. Cool air breathed over the same area when he withdrew, taking slow, even strokes, letting his hips rotate slightly, smiling when she gasped at the motion. It seemed effortless to him, and she wondered just how long he could hold out. But a closer look revealed a tell-tale twitch in his jaw and she realized how hard he was working to maintain his own control.  
  
Maybe it was time to put them both out of the marvelous misery. But he felt so good sliding in and out, so hard against her soft flesh, radiating deep within her, that she hated for it to end. Still, her body was taking over. Wrapping her legs around his waist, she moved with him, arching up when he thrust, pulling back when he withdrew. Suddenly struck by the intimacy of their moment, she lifted her hands to his face, holding it so he was watching her as she pushed harder against him, feeling him plunge even deeper, groaning as the measured movement lost some of its rhythm.  
  
Now he picked up the pace, his breath coming faster, his body glistening with sweat. Her hands ran down his chest, twirling in the hair, following the line to where their bodies joined. And finally they did begin to boil. The slow burn roared into an inferno, consuming their ebbing patience and billowing upward through their bodies. Her world became one point, one focus. She felt nothing but his hard thrusts, heard nothing but her own groans and pleas for him to come inside her. She desperately wanted nothing more than to feel the ecstasy of his climax, to tremble around the deep hot pulses that powered his release into her body. She needed that connection, that security, that explosive emotion.  
  
"Donna? Mom and Dad said you had come up here and – Oh my God!"  
  
In later years she would reflect on that particular moment with amusement. Even Jed eventually found a small measure of humor in it – if he was in a really good mood. But as it was happening – Earlier in the day, when Jed was confessing their Oval Office tryst to her parents, she had wondered if there could be a more embarrassing moment. She had her answer now.  
  
With a scream, she pushed Jed away and scrambled under the covers. He groaned in both frustration and pain – she hadn't been very gentle – until he realized they were no longer alone.  
  
"What the hell – "  
  
Gino Moss stood, face flushed as red as the stripes on the patriotic shirt he wore, jaw slack. No one spoke. What was there to say, really? The tableau froze: Donna with the sheet clutched to her chest; Jed with her discarded gown dragged strategically across his groin, and Gino with no visible means of retreat since a Secret Service agent now stood, equally stunned, at the door.  
  
Good old Gino. He had really made points so far with his brother-in-law the President. At their first meeting, he had decked him and busted his lip. And now at the second – well, he had perhaps inflicted even greater damage as far as Jed was concerned. She sensed that Jack Reese might soon have some company at the Arctic Circle.  
  
And from the expression on her husband's face, it would be a good, long tour of duty. 


	6. How do You Spin Sex on the Resolute Desk

POV: Donna Spoilers: "Night Five" (for the name of the desk in the Oval Office) Rating: PG Disclaimer: Some of these characters are mine, but most were created by AS.  
  
A Dagger Unseen – Chapter Six A West Wing Story  
  
by MAHC  
  
Banished from the White House?  
  
Banished from the White House.  
  
She had never actually heard of that happening to anyone before, although certainly it must have. Surely over the course of 204 years, there had been others that fell into that ignominious group. Still, for the President's brother-in-law to get kicked out –  
  
Donna shook her head, peeking out from behind the folder of briefs she was reading to watch her husband scribble notes on the papers before him. The harsh scratch of metal point on paper cut across the room. Apparently, Jed was taking his frustrations out on the helpless draft of the speech Toby and Will had left for him. The pen struggled in a death grip in his fingers. She wouldn't have been surprised to see it snap in two at any minute.  
  
Could have been worse. For a few minutes the night before, she had almost thought Jed was going to order the Secret Service to draw and quarter her brother right there in the room. Maybe banishment was the lightest sentence he could have expected.  
  
Well, she would work on him, talk him into letting Gino come back. A loud pop jerked her head up just in time to hear Jed curse and see him fling the ruined pen into the trashcan.  
  
Okay, maybe she wouldn't mention Gino just yet.  
  
He apparently hadn't quite gotten over last night's interruption. Of course, it hadn't helped that after Gino's very untimely arrival and the immediate and humiliating appearance of half their Secret Service contingent, Leo had iced the cake by calling to pull Jed back down to the Sit Room. The plane, the threats, Korea – she didn't know which, maybe all. At least it rescued Gino from imminent execution.  
  
She still grimaced at the sight of her husband stalking off, face still flushed, body still quite obviously struggling to shake off the intense arousal that had taken him to the edge but cruelly snagged him back before he could plunge over. And maybe it didn't really matter that his jeans couldn't hide the proof of his body's stubborn refusal to release him; everyone in the room, and a few outside in the sitting room, knew exactly what had happened. Some had even seen – Oh hell. She grimaced in mortification with the memory of exactly what they had seen.  
  
Later that night, when the world was through with him for a few hours, he had stumbled back to the Residence, fatigue and stress finally taking care of his earlier problem. Pausing only long enough to strip to his boxers, he fell into bed with a grunt, snoring softly before he had even gotten completely under the covers. Sighing, she drew the comforter up to his waist and ran her fingers over the muscles of his shoulder, remembering how they had moved under her touch only hours before. With a gentle smile, she pressed a trail of kisses across his chest before snuggling up behind him. It didn't matter that her own desires still surged. Their evening was over.  
  
Damn Gino anyway. Maybe she wouldn't try to talk Jed into letting him back, after all.  
  
Another sharp bit of profanity burst out from behind the desk and she saw that the new pen apparently hadn't faired any better than the old one.  
  
"Why the hell can't anyone make a decent writing instrument anymore?" he growled.  
  
Donna wisely chose not to answer the rhetorical question. Instead, she watched J.T. wiggle on the blanket under his Sesame Street gym, while his father destroyed several days' worth of labor by Toby and Will. Technically, they should still be on holiday, even Jed to some degree, but circumstances had pulled them all back into action early. To compensate, and maybe just to keep her close, Jed had insisted Donna and J.T. join him in the Oval Office that morning.  
  
Even though they still operated under a partial lockdown the day after Christmas, Ron had personally lifted the protective curtain to allow for the return of the senior staff. C.J., Toby, Josh, Will, and all of their assistants had made their ways back to work, not completely sure what was happening, but knowing enough to give their boss a wide berth that morning.  
  
It was only a matter of time before someone drew the short straw.  
  
"Mister President?" Donna looked up as C.J. Cregg stood in the doorway to the Oval Office, her wary expression showing that she had heard the story, that she knew what kind of mood she would find her chief executive in, and that she would rather be just about anywhere except where she was at the moment.  
  
"Yeah?" A curt reply. It was the best she would get.  
  
With a deep breath, she took another step into the room, easing the door closed behind her. "I know this is probably not a good time to, well, to discuss the treatment we should give – give the – photographs that might hit the press – "  
  
From her seat on the couch, Donna tensed, feeling the snap of anger that Jed just barely held in check. This was C.J.'s job, after all.  
  
"Yeah." Again, that tight response was all she would get.  
  
Another deep breath. "Well, there are several ways we could go about this – "  
  
Uh oh. Donna felt the reaction before it even started.  
  
Glasses hit the desk abruptly and C.J. stopped, body braced for the onslaught. "C.J., I have North Korea on the verge of nuclear proficiency. I have a terrorist attack that crashed a commercial airliner, killing 182 people. I have death threats against my child, my wife, and now me. Truthfully, I really don't give a damn about a picture showing a husband and wife expressing their love." The blue of his eyes seemed even sharper with the intensity of his emotion.  
  
To her credit, his press secretary didn't retreat. Nodding automatically in agreement, she nevertheless continued. "Yes, sir. I understand that, Mister President."  
  
"But we're gonna do this, right?" he asked, standing and bracing his hands on the desk. "We're actually gonna give attention to a moment that – "  
  
"To a moment that will create quite a sensation when it hits, with all due respect, sir." Donna gave C.J. credit. She had guts.  
  
"A moment between a husband and wife – "  
  
"A moment in the Oval Office, Mister President."  
  
He stopped, jaw jutting out defensively. She had him with that blatant statement. Donna watched the anger shift to guilt and then to acceptance. He couldn't deny C.J.'s point. Finally, he lifted his shoulders in a slight shrug. "I'm just saying it's insignificant when you compare it with what's going on in the world right now. I can't believe people would see this as more important than all of us being obliterated by North Korea." His hands had moved to his hips, now, and his lips pressed hard together.  
  
C.J. shifted slightly and cocked her head. "It's not that it's more important, sir, it's that it is more – sensational."  
  
He had slipped on the glasses again and now peered at her from over them. It was a patented Jed Bartlet glare. They all knew it well. The press secretary waited warily. Donna expected a tirade, or a stiff dismissal, or maybe even a brush off. What she didn't expect, however, was what actually happened.  
  
He smiled. Well, almost.  
  
Lips pursed, he lifted a brow. All right. Definitely a smile. "Sensational?" he asked, and the timbre of his voice had changed. With a sly glance toward his wife, he said, "Well, I can assure you from my perspective it certainly was. You'd have to ask Donna how she felt – "  
  
Blood rushed to her cheeks. "Jed!" Still, she preferred this light teasing to the brooding darkness.  
  
It was possible the press secretary's face turned even brighter red. "I didn't mean that – I mean, I meant – I meant – "  
  
Mercifully, his smile widened and he rescued her. "I know what you meant, Claudia Jean." The glasses came off again. "If anybody prints a photo, they print it. There's nothing we can do about it."  
  
Always the professional, C.J. shook off her embarrassment and plunged ahead. "We can spin it – "  
  
He laughed quietly and shook his head. "How do you spin the President and First Lady having sex on the Resolute Desk?"  
  
Donna flinched. Fair point.  
  
C.J. continued boldly, ignoring his stark observation. "We can tell the truth."  
  
"Which is?"  
  
Now she faltered a bit. "Well, I suppose you would know better than I, but – "  
  
Of course, Donna thought. Tell the truth.  
  
"C.J.'s right," she offered. They turned to look toward her. "Tell the truth. And the truth is that I had a baby seven weeks ago, that we had not had sex since then, that the doctor had cleared me that morning, that I entered the Oval Office with the express intent of seducing my husband, and that it worked."  
  
Now it was her husband's turn to blush. "Like there was any remote possibility it wouldn't," he mumbled.  
  
That might have been a grin tugging at C.J.'s lips, but she suppressed it, managing to stay on track. "Still, Mister President, there are those who would see this as a lack of respect for the Oval Office."  
  
Ouch. Bingo. Donna winced along with her husband at the bull's eye C.J. had hit. They had already talked about this, had already blushed together in rueful memory of what they had done in a room that was considered by many to be sacred ground.  
  
Exhaling heavily, Jed leaned against the front panel of the object of discussion. "Yeah," he acknowledged. "It was – it was an impulsive moment, C.J. We didn't really – plan for it to happen there. It just – did. Once we got – involved, it was hard to – well, we couldn't – " He wasn't meeting his press secretary's eyes, but that was okay, because she didn't seem to want him to.  
  
Never in her life had Donna anticipated having such casual conversations about her sex life with – well, with anybody, really. She and Josh had joked, but there was never any real knowledge of what either of them was doing. This was different. Everyone in the White House apparently knew that she and Jed had christened the Resolute Desk.  
  
"I understand," C.J. interrupted quickly, apparently eager not to learn any more details about that particular encounter. After a moment's silence, she said, "Okay. What about this? 'The President and First Lady are a loving, physical couple, who are at liberty to express that love, as do all husbands and wives. We should be enraged that someone breached the grounds of the White House to invade their right to privacy, and we are investigating how this could have occurred.'"  
  
Jed pressed his lips together, considering the quote, then nodded and sat, picking up the glasses in a sign that the crisis had been solved. "Okay."  
  
Instantly, he was absorbed in the speech again.  
  
Relieved, C.J. backed out. "Thank you, Mister President." But before she left, she turned to Donna and winked.  
  
The First Lady listened to J.T.'s cooing for a little while, scanning the paragraphs her chief of staff had prepared for her about the upcoming healthcare summit, but her mind couldn't wrap around any of the scattered information. Instead, her thoughts kept bouncing back and forth between the horrible pictures they had been sent and the plane crash. There was some connection, she knew, especially if her parents were truly targets, yet she still tried to convince herself it was all a strange coincidence. After all, there was no proof. No one had taken credit for the explosion, and NTSB was probably weeks or even months away from a definitive conclusion.  
  
With some of the tension inadvertently relieved by C.J.'s visit, Donna noticed that the Presidential pens were surviving longer. They still scribbled notes for him, but without the violent scratches from earlier. Smiling slightly, she reached for her folders just as the door opened again.  
  
"Mister President?" Debbie Fiderer stepped through, her flowing scarves more quirky than exotic. So she had come back, too. It gave Donna a touch of warm pride that all of them felt it necessary to be with their President when he needed them, regardless of their own plans for the holidays.  
  
"Yeah?" Jed called absently, still engrossed in the draft.  
  
"Ron Butterfield to see you."  
  
That was an attention-getter. Immediately, they both stiffened. "Send him in," Jed ordered in a tight voice.  
  
The tall agent strode in as usual, all business. "Mister President."  
  
"What do you have, Ron?" Jed asked, jumping straight through any pleasantries, not that Ron would have been interested in them, anyway.  
  
"We found Tony Fahrwell."  
  
They found him. They found Tony Fahrwell. She stood, heart pounding. If they had found him, they knew what was happening, why he hated them, why he had felt so strongly about J.T.'s conception.  
  
"Where?"  
  
The slight hesitation was enough to telegraph the agent's displeasure with his news. "The Potomac River."  
  
Jed cocked his head to one side, physically trying to comprehend what Ron was telling him. "The Potomac – "  
  
"He's dead, sir. Single gunshot to the head."  
  
The sudden billow of wind that had inflated their hopes collapsed with Jed's exclamation. "Damn it!" His fist hit the table with a thud, and Donna had to hold back from checking to see if he had hurt himself. "Damn it!"  
  
"There is one thing, though." No one spoke and Ron continued with silent prompting. "At his apartment, we found several items partially burned in the kitchen sink. One of them is a plane ticket to Tokyo."  
  
"Tokyo?"  
  
"What does that mean, Ron?" Donna asked. It must mean something, or he wouldn't mention it, but she didn't find the connection.  
  
"It could mean nothing. He was a photographer. He might have been going on another shoot."  
  
"But you don't think so," Jed predicted, rubbing the outside of his hand.  
  
"No, sir." With a deep breath, the agent squared his shoulders with his boss and told them, "He was assassinated, Mister President. Executed. We believe he was involved in a conspiracy. We think he didn't act alone."  
  
There it was, the magic word. The word that evoked terror in public figures and intrigue in novel readers. Dear God. Donna sat back on the couch, stunned.  
  
A conspiracy. Visions of the grassy knoll and a speeding limousine racing to Parkland Memorial Hospital flashed through her mind.  
  
A conspiracy. Being targeted by a madman who thought he was righting a sin was bad enough, but knowing you were the intended victim of an entire conspiracy was almost incomprehensible.  
  
A conspiracy.  
  
Jed was not sitting anymore. He had pushed up from the chair as soon as Ron made his declaration and now stared at the agent. "A conspiracy." His voice shook, but he didn't question the conclusion.  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Who else?"  
  
"We don't know that, yet, sir."  
  
"In Japan?"  
  
"Possibly, Mister President. I don't want to say until we have more specific evidence."  
  
Running a hand over his face, the President took a calming breath and his tone held more control when he spoke next. "All right. Keep me informed."  
  
"Yes, sir." With a crisp spin on his heel, Ron left.  
  
Donna's eyes found her husband's and they let their gazes lock for a long moment before stepped into his arms and let him hold her, let him rub his hands up and down her back, let him reassure her with gentle words that said nothing, but meant everything.  
  
A conspiracy, then. But by whom? God knew the world was full of people who might want to kill Jed Bartlet. That was harsh reality. Even if he had not made one enemy with his actions, he had stepped into that danger simply by raising his right hand and taking the oath of office. There were almost too many possible suspects to list.  
  
Lists.  
  
Throughout his career, he had been on many lists. The list of summa cum laude graduates from Notre Dame. The list of Nobel Prize winners. The list of dark horse candidates for President. The list of most admired men in the world. The list of landslide winners. The list of most eligible bachelors. But as leader of the free world, as the head of the most envied country on earth, as the symbol of capitalistic bullying, there was one more list he had made.  
  
A hit list.  
  
And that was the one type she'd just as soon he not be on. 


	7. The Calm Before the Storm

Thanks to Linda M. for her keen eye and ear and for Evelyn, whose fantastic beta job made this much better than it originally was.  
  
POV: Donna Spoilers: "Two Cathedrals" (very minor); "Take This Sabbath Day" Rating: PG Disclaimer: The main characters are not mine, but several of the minor ones are.  
  
A Dagger Unseen – Chapter Seven A West Wing Story  
  
by MAHC  
  
The calm before the storm.  
  
In the quiet of the evening, as she lay pressed against her husband's broad back, her body floating in that misty state of post-coital endorphin release, Donna Moss Bartlet wondered if that phrase didn't apply to the stalled front they found themselves behind. It had been almost two weeks since the world had last fallen apart. Two weeks since a plane crash that almost certainly owed its cause to terrorists. Two weeks since they had packed her parents back to Wisconsin, Secret Service agents in tow – and she still couldn't quite believe that they had been targets. Two weeks since the last received photographic threat against their family. Two weeks since North Korea had put an impossible proposal on the table in return for standing down on nuclear development. Two weeks since Gino had been banished from the White House, also accompanied by security, despite the ignominious dismissal by his brother-in-law.  
  
Two weeks since the President of the United States had really slept well. She raised her head to look at Jed. At least tonight she had helped him along, loved him into enough of an exhausted state to force his body to shut down for a few hours. It would allow him only four or five, never more. Even unconscious, his jaw remained tense, his brow furrowed. She wished she could take away some of the burden, but she was well aware that she herself had contributed to the weight that pushed down his shoulders. Shoulders that were broad both physically and metaphorically, but shoulders that, in private moments, had begun to slump under the relentless strain.  
  
What did this unnerving quiet mean? She was not so naïve that she thought their troubles had disappeared. Maybe several years ago, before she had joined Bartlet for America. But not now. The years had opened her eyes to the unpleasantness that could be D.C., but also to the grandeur and all that was good about their chosen form of government.  
  
And one of the grandest, best things was Josiah Bartlet himself. Propping on one elbow, she leaned over his right shoulder, studying him, still a little in awe despite the intimacy they now shared. Her gaze floated over his features. She wasn't sure what she liked best. The expressive mouth. The strong nose. The prominent vein that ran up the side of his neck. The tousled, thick hair. The tanned skin. Each attractive in its own right, but they all fit together to form an even more impressive whole.  
  
Unable to resist, she reached around and ran her fingers through the curls of hair on his chest, sliding lower to rub over his abdomen. He stirred at her touch, breath breaking from the regular pattern, unconsciously shifting to his back so that she had better access to him. She smirked. Ever since the doctor's green flag, they had taken almost every opportunity to make up for the lost seven weeks after J.T.'s birth. Except for a few thwarted moments – the most infamous one the fault of her hapless brother – they had made significant progress. Still, it took quite a bit of self-control to withdraw her caresses before she had gone too far. He needed the sleep, and she didn't want the guilt of keeping him from it, even if he wouldn't have minded the sacrifice himself. Reluctantly, she snuggled back down beside him, contenting herself with just lying against his chest. As she hoped, his breathing grew even again and he slept on.  
  
The squalls started three days later.  
  
"C.J.!"  
  
The unflappable press secretary regarded her audience with the same casual confidence as always. Leaning back on the Residence couch, Donna admired her ability to deflect the hard questions, to dodge the tricky inquiries without seeming too evasive or close-mouthed. But this time, she wondered how the voice of the Bartlet Administration would handle the question that was sure to come. They had been given a heads up just that morning, an anonymous call, strange in itself because C.J.'s reporters usually met her head on, even behind the scenes.  
  
"Steve?"  
  
Steve had it? Well, hell. That made it legitimate. The Star, they could blow off. Reuters? Not so easy.  
  
"C.J., there are rumors out there that the President and Mrs. Bartlet – well, that the First Couple – used the Oval Office for, for more than government business."  
  
Interesting way to put it. C.J. cocked an eyebrow, expertly balancing that line between flippancy and confidence. Every eye – and there was no doubt no one was daydreaming out the window at that moment – pinned the press secretary to her podium. Still, the cool façade did not even crack.  
  
"Okay. Well, I'll remind you that we don't comment on the personal – encounters – of the First Couple. They don't affect the efficiency of the country."  
  
Someone off camera muttered, "I'll bet they affect the efficiency of the President."  
  
C.J. ignored the crude, but accurate, remark. "Nevertheless, as many of you already know, President and Mrs. Bartlet are a loving, physical couple, who are at liberty to express that love, as do all husbands and wives."  
  
Just as she rehearsed.  
  
The same voice noted, "They seem to have a lot of liberty."  
  
Steve raised his hand again. "Follow up, C.J.?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Bob Ritchie said that he felt such an act was inappropriate and besmirched the dignity of the Oval Office."  
  
"Bob Ritchie used the word 'besmirched'?"  
  
Steve grinned a little. "It was on line."  
  
"Bob Ritchie was in a chat room?"  
  
"A Republican bulletin board."  
  
"Right. Much as I'd like to pounce on that one, I'll just remind you that I haven't said anything about this rumor being true."  
  
"You haven't said it's not," he returned evenly.  
  
C.J. remained undaunted. "Since the President and Mrs. Bartlet's private times are just that – private – I am unable to verify or dispel any speculation."  
  
"Can you tell me if there are pictures?"  
  
Donna held her breath. If they were asking, someone must have seen some, but why weren't they out, yet? Why wasn't she, at that very moment, staring, humiliated, at a grainy news photo of her straddling Jed's lap on his chair in the highest office in the land?  
  
C.J. cocked her head a little. "You've seen pictures, Steve?" she asked carefully.  
  
"I'm asking you."  
  
"I am not aware of any published pictures." Again, very careful. Published pictures.  
  
Another voice joined them from two rows behind Steve. "There's talk, C.J., of a photograph that shows the President and Mrs. Bartlet definitely engaged in – well, having sex in the Oval Office."  
  
How much more embarrassing could this be? Of course, if the picture actually ran all over the world, that would probably trump this unconfirmed speculation for total and complete humiliation.  
  
Another pause by the press secretary, but not long enough to arouse suspicion. "I don't know, Claire. I can only repeat that I have not seen any published photograph."  
  
Ten more hands shot up, but C.J. waved them off, choosing to make her own statement before they continued their dogged pursuit. "Again, I certainly am not apprised of the private interactions between the First Couple. And private is the key word here. I can, however, verify that their relationship is close and demonstrative, but I don't think that's news to anyone in this room, or even in this country."  
  
Several nods met her observation. The President's affection for his wife – and hers for him – was no secret. Cameras had captured their quick kisses as he exited Marine One, their clasped hands on the way to church, his hand at the small of her back, her unconscious smoothing of his lapel. These familiar touches were only surface indications of a much deeper relationship. But the reporters, being close enough to their leader to have the chance at even more intimate moments than the American public, had also witnessed the smoldering looks that passed between them, the tender rub of a shoulder, the strategic pat of a hip. A few lucky ones could even claim being present for a more heated and thorough kiss between the two after they had stepped inside the White House from the helicopter pad and away from the world's eyes. No, it should be no great revelation to anyone that the President of the United States and his wife were very much in love.  
  
"Let me just say," C.J. continued, "that the President has the utmost respect for the office that he occupies as the commander-in-chief, and he would never do anything to denigrate that office. I haven't asked him, nor do I plan to ask him, about any private moments that he and his wife share in any part of the White House. And even if they chose to, well, even if there are photographs intruding on their privacy, instead of judging the perfectly normal actions of a loving, married couple, we should be enraged that someone breached the grounds of the White House to place them in possible jeopardy."  
  
Donna couldn't tell if anyone agreed or not. After a moment, another hand went up, apparently unfazed by the press secretary's plea for them to back off. She braced herself for the rebuttal, for the condemnation, for the expected slashing of their moral values.  
  
"Danny?" C.J. recognized.  
  
Great. Danny. The most dangerous one of them all.  
  
She could already see the headlines: "She Serves at the Pleasure of the President – "Did he have the picture? If he had somehow gotten hold of other pictures it would be devastating. One in particular, she winced at, when Jed had deposited her on the desk and her legs had crossed around his waist –  
  
"I have a source that says North Korea might be willing to negotiate on the nuclear weapons, but the President is refusing. Is he playing 'international chicken' here? Who blinks first?"  
  
North Korea?  
  
Did he just ask about North Korea?  
  
Just North Korea?  
  
Thank God. Thank Danny. She should have known he would see the trivia of an Oval Office tryst when compared with threatening war.  
  
C.J. didn't smile, since the subject matter certainly didn't warrant it, but she wanted to, Donna could tell. This was more up her alley. "The President isn't playing chicken with nuclear war. He takes North Korea's threats very seriously. But America can't bow to every – "  
  
As C.J. diplomatically gave Danny a non-answer on his question, Donna allowed her breath to come a little easier. They didn't care, not really. The legitimate press truly found more significance in an international crisis than in the sexual exploits of the First Couple of the United States. At least for the time being.  
  
Maybe the hurricane she had feared would be no more than a tropical depression. If this was the worst of it, she could handle the implication that she and Jed had an active sex life. It was, after all, the truth.  
  
But something told her the brewing storm had not whipped up its last gale.  
  
Three weeks after his exile, the vanquished tried again, not for the first time and, she knew, not for the last.  
  
"No, Gino, I don't think now – "  
  
She sighed and tucked the phone receiver against her shoulder as her brother interrupted, pleaded again for another chance to redeem himself. After the initial shock of seeing his sister and brother-in-law engaged – deeply engaged – he had found himself briskly escorted from the room, and, eventually, the building. Not that Donna didn't feel for him. She did, really. It had always been Gino's luck to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Murphy's Law seemed to have been created specifically for him. And she felt that eventually Jed would come around. After all, he had been more than understanding after his brand new brother-in-law had slugged him at Thanksgiving. But he had taken that punch with much more aplomb than the unforgivable crime of interrupting them in the throes of passion.  
  
"I'll explain it to him," Gino assured her for at least the twentieth time. "He'll understand."  
  
"I'm really thinking not."  
  
"It's not that he's the President – "  
  
"Or that he could have your Reserve unit sent to the North Pole. Or maybe the middle of the Sahara Desert?"  
  
"It has nothing to do with that!" he declared.  
  
And she believed him. He was truly sorry he had barged in on them. But that was just Gino. Nothing could guarantee it wouldn't happen again. In fact, she'd put even money on it being a given.  
  
"Look, Gino," she soothed wearily, tired of his persistence. "It's not gonna happen any time soon. There's just – just too much."  
  
"Yeah." She heard the resignation in his voice and softened.  
  
"How are you doing?"  
  
"Okay." No conviction there.  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Except for these damned gorillas that follow me around twenty-four, seven," he complained.  
  
"It's for – "  
  
"My protection. Right."  
  
"Gino – "  
  
"It's okay, Donna. I understand. I don't guess I blame him." The silence floated between them for a moment. Finally, he said, "When do you think he'll – "  
  
But it was the same answer. "I don't know." She didn't want to be mad with him, but couldn't quite keep the exasperation from her tone. "I don't know, Gino, but not today, okay? Not today."  
  
His broken voice shuddered on the other end of the line and she almost gave in, almost promised to talk with Jed about it. Then a quick memory crossed her thoughts: the look on her husband's face as he sat, naked, on his own bed, the focus of an entirely unwelcome audience of in-laws and Secret Service. Anger, embarrassment, and frustration heated his expression. She blushed as she remembered reading significant discomfort, as well. When Gino had burst in on them, Jed was only moments away from – Well, it wasn't easy for him to stop. She winced at the vision of pain on her husband's face and shook her head again, even though her brother couldn't see the action.  
  
"No, not today," she repeated. Not today.  
  
The New Year had given them a break. No photo had surfaced, yet, and the public, instead of condemning them for their indiscretion, actually embraced the evidence of their playfulness, apparently rather proud of their First Couple for being attractive and sexy. Who would have thought? And as far as she knew, no new threats had appeared, either, no horrible pictures ripping their images to pieces, no violent accounts of what their fates would be.  
  
She wondered if this was the eye of the storm or just the rain bands. Were they in the middle? On their way out? Or had the maelstrom not even started yet?  
  
Dismissing those worries as irrelevant, Donna nursed J.T., enjoying the bond the action created. She knew that as long as she lived she would be able to remember the feeling. His tiny fists clenched in pleasure as his belly filled with the warm life-giving liquid that fortified his immune system. His eyes looked up at her, his brain impressing the features of her face as one who loved him, as one who would be at the center of his life for a long time. Her heart ached with the intensity of that love. She had never known such a feeling. Even with Jed, even with the depth of her love for him, somehow, what she felt for this child was different, and she knew it was the same between father and son.  
  
Father and son. She smiled at the memory of the previous night when Jed had managed to break away a little early and make it in before J.T. settled down, at least for his first four-hour stretch of sleep. What would the rest of the world leaders have thought of the cooing and ridiculous baby talk that had come from the President of the United States as he jiggled his child playfully? Probably that Jed Bartlet was an amazing man and a marvelous father.  
  
Her thoughts darkened again when she was reminded of his own painful childhood, coping the best way a boy could with a father who didn't like him, who envied him his intelligence instead of bursting with pride over such a remarkable offspring. How could any parent treat their child like John Bartlet had treated his?  
  
Since she had confronted him about his father, Jed had quit waking in the middle of the night thrashing and calling out for help. But she knew he would never be able to let go of those memories, never be able to look back on the security a normal childhood provided. But now he had a second chance with J.T. As the father, he could have the father-son relationship he never had as the son.  
  
"John Thomas," she whispered to the baby as his eyes fluttered closed in satisfied slumber, "your father loves you. I love you. I love you so much."  
  
In the next room, J.T.'s father was meeting with Leo and Admiral Fitzwallace. And she listened with a twinge of guilt at eavesdropping. Still, they knew where she was and they had left the door between them ajar. Therefore, there must not be too much concern about her presence.  
  
Okay, she justified, then she could listen all she wanted.  
  
"They consider sanctions a declaration of war," Leo was saying.  
  
"War! They consider – My God, what are they doing when they sell plutonium to the first terrorist who drops by?" The anger in her husband's voice carried easily into the hallway.  
  
"Mister President," said Admiral Fitzwallace. "According to our estimates, North Korea pulls in between $150 and $300 million a year selling ballistic missiles. Pakistan's Ghauri missile is a direct copy of the technology of their Nodong missile."  
  
"The Ghauri. Islamabad to India in one nuclear leap."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
She wondered if Jed had ever imagined that he would know so much about nuclear weapons, wondered if he wished he hadn't had to learn certain things as President.  
  
"Anyone who would do that wouldn't think twice about selling plutonium to al-Qaeda."  
  
"No, sir."  
  
"Have they?" It was a question they all wanted to know.  
  
Fitzwallace, as usual, didn't flinch. His strong, even features gave his President confidence, regardless of the facts. "We don't know, Mister President."  
  
"Odds?"  
  
"I'd say there's a seventy-five percent chance they've already exchanged plutonium for cash or maybe bomb technology."  
  
"Seventy-five percent?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Have they got an active reactor, yet?"  
  
"We don't know that, sir."  
  
"What's their potential capacity?"  
  
Fitz sighed. The President wasn't going to like this answer. "The CIA estimates that when all three suspected reactors are operational, they could produce 281 kilograms a year. That's more than enough for home use – with plenty left over for the local lemonade stand."  
  
It sometimes struck Donna as surreal that there were people in her living room discussing nuclear bombs as if they were DVDs. She scooted the rocker back so she could see them. Jed stood at the hearth, elbow propped on the mantle, thumb and finger pinching the bridge of his nose. A sure sign of frustration and exhaustion. The other men watched silently as he mulled this over in his head. Finally, he let his arm drop to his side and pushed away from the fireplace.  
  
"You know the official name of North Korea?" he asked abruptly, but didn't wait for an answer. "Democratic Peoples' Republic of Korea. How about that? Anybody over there actually looked up the definition of 'democratic'?"  
  
A humorous observation at any other moment. At this point, only ironic.  
  
"You think they are almost there?" Jed asked.  
  
The Admiral lifted his chin. "I think so, Mister President. They just need to get rid of a few obstacles first."  
  
He cocked his head in sudden interest. "What obstacles?"  
  
Fitz leveled a pointed look at his commander-in-chief. "You."  
  
Jed nodded. "You mean 'we.' The United States."  
  
But the imposing admiral shook his head. "No, sir. I mean you. Josiah Bartlet."  
  
The group assembled stood silent for a moment as the chairman's words sank in. She could almost hear the connections clicking into place and realized that the approaching storm had just grown more intense.  
  
"I want to go."  
  
"Absolutely not."  
  
"Jed – "  
  
Pacing was a natural movement for him. It gave him room away from the problem, even a few steps, it allowed his muscles to be occupied and not interfere with his brain as it worked its brilliance. The carpet already showed signs of wear in front of their fireplace. "We've already been over this, Donna. It is nothing that concerns you – "  
  
"How can you say that? Nuclear responsibility doesn't concern me? It concerns every single human being on this planet!"  
  
"You know what I mean – "  
  
She stood, gaining the height advantage, but still falling short in stubbornness. "No, I don't. Look, Jed, it will be the first speech I have attended since J.T. was born. What better moment to choose than one that challenges the world to safeguard this planet for our children? What better way to show our commitment as parents than for us to go together, for me to be there to show how important this issue is?"  
  
A hand waved away her logic. "I think everyone realizes its importance anyway. You don't have to – "  
  
"What are you not telling me, Jed?"  
  
The steps slowed, but he didn't look back. "What?"  
  
"What is it you aren't telling me? Another threat?"  
  
Now he stopped pacing and stared at her. "No. I told you – I promised I would share everything about that with you. Don't you believe – "She flinched at the pain on his face.  
  
Instantly regretting that she had questioned him, she said, "No. I'm sorry. I do believe you. It's just that I feel very strongly about being there tomorrow, with you."  
  
He ran a hand through his hair, mussing his previous combing. "Donna, I don't – "  
  
"Check with Ron, at least?"  
  
Eyes coming up to meet hers, he finally smiled, that closed-mouthed, surrender of a smile, and nodded. "Okay." But the eyes didn't twinkle like she hoped.  
  
Okay. Good. She had won that battle. But why didn't she feel victorious?  
  
The bullpen bustled with activity, as usual. It gave her a little pang of memories, a brief moment of regret, quickly squelched, that she wasn't in the middle of this chaos any more. Of course, her chaos was much bigger, now. Wasn't it? Somehow, she figured she might actually be closer to the action here, even, than where she was. Jed tried to shield her, tried to keep the worst of the mess away from her. She wished he wouldn't. She wished he would bring her in, just for the excitement, just for the feeling of doing something, of being involved. Oh, she stayed busy enough, trying to carry through with Abbey Bartlet's heath care reforms. But this latest crisis was so personal to her family, to her child, to her husband, that she felt the urgency to act.  
  
Josh had sped past her before his brain caught up with his body. The about- face was typical. "Donna! Uh – Mrs. Bartlet, hey!"  
  
"Oh good God, Josh. Give it a break. It's just me."  
  
He dimpled. She had missed those dimples. "Well, you know your 'just me' has a whole new connotation, now, right? I mean 'just me' First Lady of the United States compared with 'just me' assistant to the deputy chief of staff – "  
  
He had a point. Still, she had tried to keep their relationship casual. "What's up?"  
  
"Ah, you know – trying to keep a lid on Toby's rampant joviality. Advising C.J on handling the press. Pinching Will – at his own request, mind you – so he'll know he really is writing speeches for the President of the United States."  
  
Good old Josh. She could count on him for a nice dose of ego. "Where would they be without you?" she wondered.  
  
"Lobbying for animal rights in Grover's Mill City Hall."  
  
"They don't know how lucky they are."  
  
"Listen," he said, his tone obviously changing the subject. "We met this morning. C.J. says you're going tomorrow."  
  
The speech. Uh oh. "Yeah."  
  
He shifted, one arm pressed against the doorframe, the other running through his stubborn hair. "Do you think – I mean with everything that – "  
  
"Not you, too, Josh?"  
  
"Me, too?"  
  
"Jed's not too happy about my going, either." Understatement.  
  
"Well, you can't really blame him, can you?"  
  
"Josh, we can't just shut down because – " She lowered her voice and looked around to make sure no one heard them. "Because some idiot makes threats. Besides, this is an important speech. I want to show my support."  
  
"You can still show support without actually being there. These aren't idle threats, Donna," he reminded her, waving his arm. "Whoever this is has access to you. This person is sick. How else can you explain him taking pictures of you and the President while you – "He broke off at her flinch.  
  
The world was discussing her sex life, she knew, but somehow hearing that Josh actually paid attention was much worse. She felt her entire body flush hot at the realization and wondered with a sudden flash of panic if he had seen the photo.  
  
With an awkward clearing of his throat, he tried to back out. "It was – C.J. had it – I didn't mean to – Leo felt she needed to know – and I just happened to be there, but I, well, I didn't realize what I was looking at until – "Stumbling to a halt, he blew out a heavy breath. "I'm sorry, Donna. I didn't mean to see it. It was just – there – and I –"  
  
Stop him before it gets worse. "It's okay, Josh," she assured him. Hell, what did she have to lose now? "It was the morning the doctor released me to – well, I guess it's what I get for letting my body think instead of my brain."  
  
He colored even more, but his voice held total conviction. "No. It's nothing you did wrong – or the President. We've got to find this person before he does something else. Before he – "  
  
He broke off at the entrance of his new assistant. Donna remembered her from Thanksgiving, when she had been the one to pull Jed away from the meal, the one where Gino had slugged him upon his return. She was attractive, and Donna tried not to be jealous. An exotic look, dark hair with a touch of almond-shape to the eyes, and very petite. Some far eastern blood in her.  
  
She stopped as she saw them talking. "Oh, I'm sorry, Mrs. Bartlet. I was just bringing Josh these briefs on the tobacco settlements."  
  
Tobacco settlements. Had it really been a year since she had helped Josh with that? How her life had changed. How they all had changed. Again, pushing down the totally undeserved feelings of envy, she reassured the younger woman. "It's fine. I was just visiting."  
  
"Yes, ma'am," she answered politely, deposited the bulky manila envelopes on Josh's desk, and quickly left.  
  
"She seems competent," Donna noted, blatantly inviting Josh to compare.  
  
"Yeah," he agreed, but with a sigh. "But she hasn't quite gotten the hang of ridiculing me while at the same time completely undermining any dignity I ever had." His tone softened the sarcasm.  
  
Well, she could play along. "Yes, Josh, you just can't take away such dignity from someone who wears yellow waders and an undershirt to work."  
  
"It wasn't to work," he protested, remembering exactly what she was talking out. "And you were just so helpful."  
  
"Hey, I got your suit cleaned, didn't I?"  
  
He grinned then, at the shared memory. "Well, somebody's gotta keep me straight."  
  
"Does she?" She hoped so, she truly did.  
  
Shrugging, he said, "Yeah. Not bad. You should see her dossier."  
  
Another twinge of irritation. This girl was more qualified than she was? Probably. She was being ridiculous. "Really?"  
  
"She went to Annapolis."  
  
That was a surprise. What was a graduate of the Naval Academy doing working as a secretary, even if it was for the deputy chief of staff to the President?  
  
"Didn't graduate," he explained before she could ask. "Had to drop out to support her family after her father died, but she was really tearing it up there. Lots of honors. She had planned to go into special forces."  
  
"Really?" It was hard to picture the slight, unassuming person who had just barely made a presence a few minutes before as a gung-ho, highly trained U.S. operative. Still, wouldn't that be the best person for it? The enemy would be just as hard pressed as she was to believe it.  
  
"Anyway, she said after her brother and sister got old enough, she joined the Marines. Served for eight years."  
  
Eight years? She'd have to be almost thirty, then. Didn't look it. Another touch of jealousy, even though her brain reminded her she had no cause. It wasn't romantic, she knew that. Any feelings she might have had for Josh were long transformed into friendship. Only Jed occupied her heart now. Was it, then, that someone had filled her shoes so easily, that someone might be able to take care of Josh as well as, or – even worse – better than she had?  
  
"I'm glad," she told him, and she meant it, even if she had to admit to an illogical desire to see her predecessor fall short at least a little bit.  
  
"Listen, you be careful tomorrow," he said, giving her a quick hug. "And tell the President that Toby's got the syntax police alerted in case he tries any on-site editing."  
  
"No promises to Toby," she grinned. Jed's propensity to ad lib was almost as famous as his propensity for trivia. It was a sure thing, maybe even a challenge to see how irritated he could make his communications director. From past experience, it was a skill he honed proudly.  
  
But Josh's caution was not without merit. Tomorrow was important, a key stand from the President on North Korea's drawn out stall of talks regarding their nuclear development. Tomorrow Jed would draw the line. Tomorrow they could be through the storm and sailing in clear waters. Or they could find themselves – and the world – in the midst of a hurricane, the proportions of which had never been seen before.  
  
Donna knew the speech was good. Even if she hadn't already heard it twice in the car, she always had faith in Will and Toby's ability. And Jed himself had added the quotes from one of his predecessors. But she had heard it twice, so as he captured his audience with the magic of his words and the power of his voice, she scanned the crowd, searching for anything unusual, anything dangerous. Dear God. They were on the Mall, the stage set up just in front of the Capitol, not too far from the Administrative Offices of the Smithsonian, and even though the Service had combed the area, all of them knew there were no guarantees. Never were. But the weather had certainly cooperated. Even for January in D.C., the day was mild, the sun bright, the temperature crisp, but not frigid. Jed, of course, seeing no sign of blizzard, chose to doff the overcoat. He met the elements in only his usual business suit. At least this time, he wasn't the only one.  
  
Apparently, except for the agents on duty, she was the only one not paying complete attention to the speech. As she let her eyes fall over the faces of his listeners, she saw the trust, the adoration, even the awe. And she understood it. Before she was his wife, she had been his fan. Damn, he was good, his rich voice lending style and power to the words.  
  
"Theodore Roosevelt christened the U.S. the 'world's police.' And maybe we are," he declared, whipping a hand in the air in a credible echo of that progressive President's characteristic gesticulation. "Maybe as a result of being strong and stable and fair that is our duty. But we can't dictate the actions of countries who are unerringly determined to ignore common rules of humanity. After Roosevelt, we still fought World War One and World War Two and Korea and Vietnam and the Gulf War. We are not going to conquer evil. It will forever be with us. But we can determine how evil is going to fight. And it's not going to be with such weapons as we have, ourselves, refrained from using. Even at the height of the Cold War, even in October of 1962, we used our own humanity to say, 'No,' to stop Armageddon. America and Russia both chose to guide our ships of state away from disaster, toward peace."  
  
He was forced to pause as the swell of applause confirmed his audience's support. "Now we find ourselves facing a similar situation, but we are not at the helm. Another leader holds the fate of millions of humans in his hands. Does that mean we just wait? We stand by helplessly?"  
  
He paused again to let each mind provide the answer to the rhetorical question. Then, shifting his body to lean forward, to draw his listeners in as if they sat alone in a private room, he went on. "Roosevelt also said, 'If we are to be a really great people, we must strive in good faith to play a great part in the world. We cannot avoid meeting great issues. All that we can determine for ourselves is whether we shall meet them well or ill.' We will meet this issue well!"  
  
More cheers, more applause. He had them now.  
  
"We will not allow Pyongyang to destroy the nuclear peace of almost sixty years!"  
  
The claps grew louder, didn't stop for him to continue. He raised his voice to be heard over the enthusiastic affirmation of his proclamations.  
  
"We will not allow the destruction of that carefully kept armistice! We will not allow – "  
  
Then, suddenly, the calm was over, and the stalled front erupted into a mighty force whose thunder echoed the terrifying rumble of "Rosslyn."  
  
No matter how many times she watched the replay, Donna Moss Bartlet couldn't let go of the thin strand of hope that it would change somehow, end differently with a rousing cheer and his trademark grin flashing the crowd. But it never did. CNN had the best angle, so most of the stations picked up their feed, used their tape. She hadn't been at Rosslyn, had relied on television for her visual memories of those unthinkable moments, but this time – this time she was front row, center. Literally. And her brain replayed it over and over. The crack of the rifle. The shout of the Secret Service agents. The screams of the crowd. All seemed to happen simultaneously, and Donna had only a second, maybe two, to swing her gaze back to her husband. Two seconds to fill her brain with the horrifying sight of Jed's head snapping to the right, his body jerking backwards with a violent twist as Ron Butterfield threw an arm around his charge and dived to the floor of the dais with him, sprawling on top of the fallen President of the United States.  
  
The world collapsed into blackness.  
  
When her eyes opened again, she found her face pressed against the rough pieces of the stage, a heavy body plastered over her, unyielding. Her ears pounded with every frantic beat of her heart. She had only one thought.  
  
Jed! Did she say that aloud? No one heard, or listened, if she did. Try again.  
  
"Jed!"  
  
"Stay down, ma'am." Jonah. Almost calm, but not quite. He couldn't mask the strident quality that the surge of adrenaline had pushed into his voice.  
  
"The President?" she asked, afraid to use his name again, afraid it would make the news too personal, too painful.  
  
But she received no answer. Unable to move her head, she searched with her eyes, straining to see beyond the surface right in front of her. Dark material of pants legs, the soul of a shoe. What had Jed been wearing? A navy suit? Gray? She had playfully helped him dress that morning, had buttoned the shirt herself, had smoothed the lapels. And now she suddenly couldn't remember.  
  
Sirens screamed, mixing with the terrified chaos of the scattering audience. Muffled grunts echoed off the wood below them. Please be Jed, she prayed. Please let him be alive to grunt.  
  
"Report! Report!" someone yelled.  
  
"I've got Dove," Jonah barked, his lungs pushing hard against her.  
  
"Where's Eagle? Who's got Eagle?"  
  
Answer! Damn it! Answer him!  
  
It could have been seconds or minutes or hours. Donna yearned to drag herself out from under the only thing that shielded her from danger. But she didn't care about the danger. Not to her. She only cared about one thing.  
  
"Here! I've got him!"  
  
Thank God! And –  
  
"We need to fall back. Is he conscious?"  
  
A pause. Too long.  
  
"Negative. Get the medics in here and set up a perimeter."  
  
Negative? Medics? Oh, God!  
  
"Let me up!" She used the swell of panic, of anger, to thrust up hard enough to dislodge Jonah so that she could see better. It garnered her only a small improvement.  
  
Then she gasped as her body was suddenly wrenched up. Could someone lie vertically? Jonah seemed to be, his frame blanketing her own.  
  
"Can we secure the area?"  
  
Could they? An open park, a transportable platform. No, she didn't think they could, not really.  
  
"Can we move him?"  
  
There might be others down, but no one questioned who they meant. Him.  
  
"Is he hit?"  
  
No pause this time. "He's hit." There was certainty in the response. No question.  
  
The significance of that simple statement fell hard, and there was a brief moment of stunned silence before instincts kicked in and chaos reclaimed the day.  
  
Ron's voice cut through the melee, driving them all to one point, one focus. "I need an ambulance here."  
  
Nothing stopped her this time as she tore away from her bodyguard and stumbled toward the tangle of legs that was now separating as Butterfield and two other agents disengaged themselves. The figure below them was unmistakable. It was a navy suit, she noted absently. He lay face down, legs sprawled, one arm pinned under him, the other flung up by his head. Then it was as if someone twisted a knife into her stomach. She saw the dark moisture spreading under his head, seeping from the thick hair, staining the wood red.  
  
Someone screamed and she realized after a minute it came from her, the agonized cry ripping through her throat. Strong arms caught her again before she could fall on her husband, before she could take his face in her hands and make him open his eyes, make him smile at her, scold her for being so worried.  
  
"Mrs. Bartlet!"  
  
"Let me go to him!" For a moment she wrenched free and managed to fall to her knees beside him. Jonah knelt with her, still putting himself between her and the rest of the threatening world. Tentatively, she touched his shoulder, sliding her hand up toward his neck. His face was almost totally obscured by blood. It coated his jaw and cheek, matted his hair, splattered his shirt and coat. She felt another pull at her shoulder but struggled against it.  
  
"We've got to get him out of here!" Ron yelled over the cacophony, and she turned to answer, but realized her was speaking to a paramedic who had skidded through the path of agents and was running his hands briskly over their notable victim.  
  
"Is he dead?" she heard someone ask. Please don't answer. Don't answer.  
  
"Give me a minute!" yelled the EMT.  
  
"We don't have a minute!"  
  
Or did they? If he was already dead –  
  
But no one was willing to take a chance on making the injury worse by moving him if he was still alive. Emergency workers are trained to remain calm, to keep their heads in frantic situations, but even the most stoic couldn't help but react when the patient was the leader of the free world. He fumbled with the pressure pack before securing it with a make-shift wrap around the head.  
  
"Let's go!" he declared. She watched as blood soaked the folded gauze.  
  
Blood. He was still bleeding. Thank God.  
  
Six men fell into place automatically around the President, as if it had been rehearsed. Grimly, Donna realized if probably had. As a team, they lifted their leader, attempting efficiency and gentleness at once. Ron, himself, cradled the head, unconcerned with the dark stain that spread across his shirt and coat. Then she lost them, hustled away by four more agents whose beefy shoulders blocked her attempt to follow the path of Jed's team.  
  
The aroma of leather was the first thing that anchored her to the comprehension that she was in the limo and they were already moving. In this perception of safety, she gathered what few wits she could draw together and tried to organize the pieces of information in her reeling brain.  
  
"Where's my husband?" she demanded, pushing back the hair that fell over her face.  
  
Jonah sat across from her, breath coming as hard as hers, even with his conditioning. "He's in the ambulance, Mrs. Bartlet. They're headed to GW."  
  
"I want to go – " They couldn't keep her away.  
  
"We are, ma'am." No one would try.  
  
Then a sudden, horrible thought occurred to her and swept her with guilt that she hadn't considered it before. "J.T.! Do you have – "  
  
"He's secured at the Residence, ma'am."  
  
Thank God. At least that was something. Some small comfort in the midst of unbelievable disaster.  
  
"The girls?"  
  
And Jonah knew whom she meant. "Their protection has been contacted. They're pulling them in now."  
  
"All right." She fell back against the seat, breath coming in gasps. Okay. Okay. Now for the hard question. The one she really didn't want to hear the answer to. "Did you see – How bad is – Is he going to – "  
  
But Jonah saved her the agony of saying it aloud. Quietly, he swallowed, unable to look her in the eye. She heard the frustration in his voice. "I don't know, ma'am. I don't know."  
  
The storm had hit. And what a hell of a storm it was. 


	8. November 63

Again, thanks to Evelyn for the beta. She always makes it better.  
  
POV: Donna Spoilers: None Rating: PG Disclaimer: These characters are not mine. I guess they are still Aaron Sorkin's. I hope John Wells takes good care of them.  
  
A Dagger Unseen – Chapter Eight A West Wing Story  
  
by MAHC  
  
November 22, 1963. The file footage of those haunting visions flashed continuously across the television screens of the world, mixing like an eerie harbinger with the newest, and similarly unthinkable tragedy. In one moment JFK was jerking forward, the infamous "amber burst" haloing him. In the next, Josiah Bartlet was convulsing backwards, his own splatter of red a horrifying repeat of 40-year-old brutality.  
  
The CNN shot had become the Zapruder film of this generation, capturing the morbid attention of every viewer, compelling them to watch, even as their stomachs clenched in sickness and fury. This was their President. Their leader. Their guy. How could anyone dare attack them in such a personal way?  
  
But if the country felt so intimately assaulted, Donna Moss Bartlet felt as if a jagged knife had ripped through her body and hacked out a part of her. And, indeed, it had. Her other half. Her strength. Her steady rock. How could she drag herself from the despair that strangled her now? How could she face the un-faceable?  
  
The staff stepped past her quietly, offering coffee or water or whatever she might need or want. But they couldn't provide what she needed. No one could. Not C.J. Not Leo. Not the girls, frantically gathered up and brought to the hospital, their stunned faces tight with disbelief, with pain, with anger. Not even her parents, finally on their way under the heavy protection of the secret service, their well-meaning words no longer the comforting weight they had been when she was a child. The innocence was gone, now. What she faced only one other had dealt with to any extent. And Abbey Bartlet wasn't there to help.  
  
"Hey."  
  
A hand dropped gently on her shoulder and she drew her gaze away from the television screen to meet the reddened eyes of Zoey Bartlet. The youngest daughter of the fallen President didn't pretend to smile, didn't force any hollow words. But her touch held strength, determination – so much like her father.  
  
Donna nodded her response.  
  
"I got you a breast pump," she said, indicating the table on which the compact device now rested.  
  
How strange that she would have to think of that, but life went on. Her body needed to release the milk; her son needed to be fed. For security reasons, he remained at the White House. Ellie had volunteered to go back, to care for him, and Donna felt bad that she would be trying to wrestle a bottle down him. Even after several weeks of effort, he remained discontent with anything but his mother's flesh. Still, there was really no other choice now. She tried a smile; didn't know if it reached her lips.  
  
"Thanks."  
  
"Yeah. You eaten?"  
  
Eaten? Food? Her stomach rebelled at the very thought. "I'm okay."  
  
"Donna – "  
  
Don't snap, she told herself. Zoey is hurting, too. "Really. I'll get something in a little while."  
  
"Sure." But neither of them believed it. Zoey gave her a final pat before leaving the room.  
  
Donna knew she had to move, had to get up out of the chair and face the world. They would expect nothing less. What had Jackie Kennedy done? She had shown grace and poise and dignity. She had set the bar for any future First Ladies unfortunate enough to find themselves in similar situations. She didn't pretend to be Jackie Kennedy. But she would not fail to do her duty. She would not show anything less than control of herself to America – to the world.  
  
"Mrs. Bartlet?"  
  
Willing the blood to keep pumping through her heart, she turned again toward the door. It was possible that Ron Butterfield's expression had hardened completely to stone. Only the eyes showed the frustration she knew he felt.  
  
"I know this is not a good time – "  
  
No, she thought, almost laughing at the understatement. No, it's really not a good time. "What is it?"  
  
"I have some questions about – about the attack."  
  
God, please don't. She didn't want to remember, didn't want to think about it. But, damn it, that was all she could think about. Even when the TV wasn't replaying the shooting, she saw it over and over in her own mind, unable to shake the brutally horrifying reality of what had happened.  
  
"What do you want to know?"  
  
He breathed a little easier at her acquiescence and sat ramrod straight in a chair next to her. "Jonah said you were watching the crowd when the shot was fired."  
  
Was she? Snapshots of smiling faces popped into her memory, adoring admirers, cheering followers. Yes. Yes, she was. "That's right."  
  
"Did you see anything unusual? Anything out of place? Anything you weren't accustomed to?"  
  
Anything she wasn't accustomed to? Well, she wasn't really accustomed yet to thousands of people jostling to shake her hand, to touch her husband's coat, to get a smile or wave from both of them. She wasn't accustomed to dragging bodyguards everywhere she went. She wasn't accustomed to having her mail checked before she got to read it. She wasn't accustomed to being called for interviews by Peter Jennings, and Tom Brokaw, and Dan Rather, and Wolf Blitzer all at the same time. And she sure as hell wasn't accustomed to watching as her husband was violently struck down right in front of a stunned world.  
  
The scream ballooned in her aching chest, but she managed to deflate it before the eruption. It wasn't Ron's fault, really, even though as head of the President's detail, he could very easily take the blame. But Jed knew the risks; he just hadn't believed them.  
  
After a long, tense moment, she shook her head. "No." It was all she could manage.  
  
He nodded, sensing not to push, but she felt the urgency bleeding from him, could almost smell the guilt on his skin. With effort, she laid a hand on his arm.  
  
"Any word on the – on the shooter?" She couldn't bring herself to say "assassin." Giving voice to it would make it too real.  
  
He flinched. "No."  
  
"How could he just vanish?" she asked. How could someone who had just fired a rifle on The Mall get away? Hadn't others been caught? John Wilkes Booth. Charles Guiteau. Leon Czolgosz. Lee Harvey Oswalt. John Hinkley, Jr. Why not this time? How could they not catch him? How could they not punish him? How could they not rip out his heart like he had done to her –  
  
Clutching at the escaping shreds of her control, she took a deep breath. "You did your best, Ron."  
  
But that reassurance seemed only to crack the hard façade. The eyes reddened with the strain of unshed tears. Not good enough, they said. Not damned good enough.  
  
As if her touch had burned him, he pulled away, standing and drawing the mask of formality over his face. "We'll find him, ma'am," he promised, voice tight, words clipped, not daring anything more.  
  
He had spun and escaped before she could give him even an insincere smile. Just as well. She didn't know if she could have managed it anyway. So the Secret Service didn't know. There was an assassin on the loose, a country in turmoil, a world poised on the brink of war. No one had any answers. And the one man they wanted to look to couldn't provide them.  
  
For some time she stared across the room, noting the pattern the breaking sunlight threw onto the floor. It could have been a few minutes or an hour, but at least they were leaving her alone. She wanted to be alone, wanted to let her body float in the surreal fantasy that as long as no one said anything nothing had happened. She wanted to escape the constant bustle of a staff trying too hard to help but only succeeding in agitating her more. Too much movement. Too much chaos. There would be time for that later. Her brain needed to think.  
  
But apparently they weren't comfortable with leaving her totally to herself. The door edged open again. "Donna."  
  
Leo stepped inside, looking more haggard and rumpled than she had ever seen him. His double-breasted suit coat hung open, his tie, while still knotted, was no longer square at his throat. The lines of his face had lengthened, etching pain, sorrow, and anger deep into his skin.  
  
"How're you doing?" he asked.  
  
How do you think? How the hell do you thing I'm doing? Again, she forced the bitter response back. It wasn't Leo's fault, really. At least she tried to tell herself that.  
  
"Okay," she lied.  
  
He stepped just inside the door. "Everyone is sending their thoughts and prayers. I think maybe the only country we haven't heard from is Qumar. Big surprise." He tried to smile, a sad upturn of his lips.  
  
She nodded.  
  
"You need anything?"  
  
My husband. "No."  
  
"Liz will be back later. She's making arrangements."  
  
"Yeah." It occurred to her that she had given him only one-word answers so far, but even that much response felt like an ice pick driving into her brain.  
  
"Donna, I – "  
  
Her upraised hand stopped him, unable to hear more. "Not now, Leo, okay? I just – not now."  
  
He nodded, and she tried to feel bad about the moisture in his eyes. But she couldn't. She hurt too much herself to take on the pain of everyone else. One day, maybe. But not now. Not now.  
  
Then she was alone again, just as she had asked earlier. Alone to ponder fate. Alone to build scenarios of hope in her mind. Alone to pray. The sun pushed boldly through the blinds, flooding the room with light and warmth, but it could not penetrate the dark and cold of her soul. Her eyes found the television once more, watched the same images play, each scene twisting her guts, tearing her heart.  
  
Grassy knoll.  
  
The Mall.  
  
Dallas.  
  
Washington.  
  
Parkland Memorial.  
  
George Washington University.  
  
Too many similarities. Too much pain.  
  
Still, despite the footage, despite the comparisons, despite the speculation by media-hired medical commentators, there was one significant difference between November of 1963 and January of 2004.  
  
Josiah Bartlet wasn't dead.  
  
Not yet. 


	9. The Nation's Blood

MUCHO thanks to Evelyn for helping me get back on track with her great suggestions. Hope you enjoy.  
  
POV: Donna  
Spoilers: ITSOTG,  
Rating: PG  
Disclaimer: Most of these characters are not mine, although I  
did create Dr. Egris and J.T.  
  
A Dagger Unseen – Chapter Nine  
A West Wing Story  
  
by MAHC  
  
"– was rushed to George Washington University Hospital, to the same trauma room, we are told, in which he was treated for wounds suffered in the unsuccessful assassination attempt outside the Newseum in Rosslyn four years ago. So far, no word still on the President's condition."  
  
The rather frazzled field reporter stood before the emergency entrance of George Washington University Hospital, looking hard into the camera, covering, perhaps, the story of her life, Donna Bartlet thought. She couldn't remember seeing her before.  
  
"Press Secretary C.J. Cregg has not yet appeared for any sort of briefing and speculation is rampant. We have reports that President Bartlet's injuries are serious and the Vice-President has been brought to the White House. But I stress these are not substantiated reports. I should also add that there is information from witnesses that claim the President was talking with medics as they administered first aid to him. Until the White House chooses to make a statement –"  
  
The White House won't make a statement until they know what the hell is going on, Donna figured bitterly. She glanced across the private waiting room. They all waited, wondering, frightened. C.J. and Toby, sitting silently, heads close. Josh and his assistant, her hand on his shoulder in comfort. No jealousy now. Donna only felt gratitude that someone could offer him that. She surely couldn't. Liz and her family, putting on brave faces for the world, but hurting inside just as much as the others. Charlie and Zoey, thigh to thigh, their anguish over a father and a man who might as well be a father painfully visible. And Ellie. Alone, as usual. Brooding – like her father. But tearless, strong – like her father.  
  
They waited with Donna, apart but there, if necessary. She turned back to stare at the doors that led deeper into the hospital, to where Jed was, to where her life now lay.  
  
Finally, Leo pushed away from his position near that door and sat beside her.  
  
"You need anything?"  
  
Already answered that question. "No."  
  
"How about some water? Or a Fresca?"  
  
She smiled, surprised. How did he know –  
  
"Jed told me you liked it," he said, answering the question she must have asked with her face.  
  
She tried not to flinch when Leo used her husband's name, tried not to wonder if he would ever be able to tell his best friend anything again.  
  
"Donna, it's going to be –"  
  
"Don't say it, Leo," she warned, a flash of anger whipping over her. "Don't say it's going to be all right."  
  
He didn't argue. They sat for a moment, and she fought the impulse to leap to her feet and run away from the walls that even now pushed in on her. It had been too long since the last update, too long since she had stumbled in behind the ambulance, following a trail of blood down the hall. Presidential blood. The nation's blood.  
  
But the moment passed, and she managed to drag her irrational urge back under control before she embarrassed herself. She thought of J.T., in the arms of Margaret, who had volunteered to keep him so that Ellie could come listen with her doctor's ear. Did he want his mother? At this age, could he tell the difference? But she knew he could, had experienced the way he calmed as soon as her hands touched him. The same way he did for his father.  
  
His father.  
  
Would she one day be telling him about the man he never knew? Would she show him pictures, and fill his mind with memories he had never experienced? Or would Jed help him make his own? She ached to know what was happening, to have some news, any news –  
  
"We've got something." Ron Butterfield's abrupt entrance drew everyone's attention.  
  
"Jed?" she asked, hopeful, but terrified at once.  
  
His eyes flickered with brief regret. "No, ma'am."  
  
Leo was on his feet before she could ask more. "What?"  
  
"Let's move over here, sir." The others fell back, somehow understanding, even with their need to know, that this was not for their ears. Not at the moment, anyway. The three of them stepped deeper into the room, away from the doors.  
  
When they felt removed enough, Ron said, voice low, "Tony Fahrwell."  
  
"The dead photographer?"  
  
Ron nodded. "FBI confirms he was a sort of 'celebrity' photographer. Good enough at it to be invited to take photos of 'royal' families all over the world."  
  
"Such as?" she asked.  
  
"The King and Queen of Sweden, Japan's crown prince and princess, and –" He lowered his eyebrows for emphasis. He need not have bothered. He had their attention. "– the President of North Korea."  
  
They digested this for a moment. Finally, Leo, ever the cautious one, noted, "Could be a coincidence."  
  
"I don't think so," Ron said, and that meant he was certain.  
  
"Ron, are you saying – " Leo glanced around at the others in the waiting room and lowered his voice. "Are you saying that North Korea tried to assassinate the President?"  
  
The tone was so incredulous that Donna almost laughed. Sure, there was no love lost between the U.S. and that communist country. Sure, Jed had made them toe the line with their nuclear revelations, had stood by his guns and insisted they dispose of all ability to create nuclear weapons before he would agree to continuing the humanitarian aid. But a sovereign nation plotting the demise of a sitting President? It was incomprehensible.  
  
Wasn't it? Then again, the Bay of Pigs crossed her mind. And their own dirty business with Abdul Shareef. Maybe it wasn't.  
  
"Where does Fahrwell fit in?" Leo asked. "He's dead. He couldn't have shot the President."  
  
"He already shot the President," Ron reminded them. "And the First Lady. His weapon was a Nikon F-100."  
  
She colored at the reminder of those photos. "He could have killed us if he had wanted, from where he must have been outside the Oval Office."  
  
"No, ma'am," Ron said.  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"Well, for one thing, the windows are bullet-proof."  
  
Ah. That was right.  
  
"But even if they weren't, he still couldn't have done it."  
  
Donna frowned at him, not following. "What do you mean?"  
  
"Tony Fahrwell took the Thanksgiving portraits of you, but I don't think he is responsible for the photos in the Oval Office."  
  
Her mind reeled. What was he saying?  
  
Leo stepped closer. "Why not?"  
  
"He's a photographer, Leo. We found six cameras in his apartment, all of them professional pieces of equipment. Nikons, Minoltas, even one Hasselblad. Do you remember what kind of photos were those from the Oval Office?"  
  
"I dunno. Looked sort of like an instamatic," Donna recalled. A little grainy, thank goodness, and obviously not the quality of one of the cameras Ron named.  
  
"Yes, ma'am," the agent agreed. "Why would a professional photographer use a cheap camera? I don't believe Tony Fahrwell took those photographs."  
  
"But they were found in his apartment," Leo reminded him.  
  
Ron nodded again.  
  
"Then he was in on this with someone else?"  
  
"Or someone planted them to try to set him up," Donna offered, strangely glad for her brain to have something else to focus on, even for a few minutes.  
  
"But for what reason?" Leo wondered. "And how are the threats against J.T. and the First Lady connected to the attack today?"  
  
"I don't know, yet, but I will." The assurance was contagious. Donna knew that the man who had not been able to take the bullet for the President would damn well find out who had shot it.  
  
There must be one in the building somewhere, but Donna hadn't found a clock yet that seemed to keep accurate time. Surely they had been there for days or maybe weeks. Surely their lives were being stripped away from them as time passed. But with every glance at those stubborn hands, she saw that only a few minutes had gone by. She sat alone again, stoic in her solitude. Even Leo avoided her now. There was nothing to say, anyway, until someone knew something.  
  
"Mrs. Bartlet?"  
  
Donna raised her head and found herself looking into the dark eyes of Josh's assistant. What was her name? Vicki? Nicki? "Yes?"  
  
"Do you mind if – I mean, would you like some company?"  
  
She started to refuse, to continue in her lone vigil, but some deep need surfaced as she looked into the questioning face. "Yes," she decided. "I would."  
  
The woman's almond eyes blinked, almost surprised, but she sat. "I'm sure you know how saddened we are by what has happened."  
  
Nice sentiment, but Donna thought she could really do without the condolences right then. They sounded too fatal. She needed to talk about something else. "Thank you, Nicki."  
  
"Mikki, ma'am."  
  
"Mikki. Sorry."  
  
"Josh is sending me back to the West Wing to get some papers for Mr. McGarry. Can I do anything for you?" She seemed so eager, so concerned, and Donna was grateful for the chance to discuss more business-like activities, to remind her that the world was still spinning.  
  
She smiled. "Just remind him about his sensitive system occasionally."  
  
A strange expression flickered over the woman's delicate features. She reminded Donna of someone, some actress she had seen in a recent film. "Ma'am?"  
  
"Nevermind. Is it going all right?"  
  
The face smoothed. "Yes, ma'am. This has been an invaluable experience." She was pleasant enough, but Donna wished, for Josh's sake, that this girl had some personality.  
  
Something Josh had told her about his secretary popped into Donna's mind. "Josh tells me you were at Annapolis at one time," she said.  
  
A fleeting shadow passed across Mikki's face, but it was gone before Donna could be entirely sure it had really been there. "Yes, ma'am."  
  
Maybe she shouldn't go there, but Donna's curiosity prodded her a little further. "He said you did well until you – had to leave."  
  
Again, she nodded. "Family problems," was all she offered.  
  
"You joined the Marines, is that right? Special forces?"  
  
The face tightened and Donna wondered if she had gone too far, had opened up painful memories.  
  
"Yes. I was in the Corps for eight years."  
  
"You just don't seem like the Marine type," Donna told her and immediately regretted that observation.  
  
"Begging your pardon, Mrs. Bartlet," she said, sounding respectful, but very Marine-like, "what is the Marine type?"  
  
Donna shrugged and chastised herself for being so un-feminist. "I don't know. I guess there's not a type anymore, except for someone who is skilled and task committed. Why did you leave, if you don't mind my asking?"  
  
"I got a better job offer," she informed her, and before Donna could probe more, said, "Do you want me to check on the child?"  
  
The child? "J.T.?"  
  
"Yours and the President's child, ma'am. He is at the White House, isn't he? When I go back, I could see about him."  
  
Thrown a little by the abrupt change, it took Donna a moment to remember who was keeping J.T. "Uh, no, that's okay. Margaret has – "  
  
"Mrs. Bartlet?" Whatever strange tangent the assistant was headed toward took an immediate detour at the return of Ron Butterfield.  
  
Donna turned her attention to him, instantly forgetting anyone else. "Yes?"  
  
Then Leo stepped from behind him. "Donna?"  
  
Oh God. The both of them standing there couldn't be good, couldn't carry just a casual greeting or reassuring word. The both of them standing there meant one of them needed support, back-up, for what he was about to say.  
  
She stood, a trembling hand sliding up to her throat to hold back the scream. "Yes." So calm. Was that her voice?  
  
"The doctor needs to speak with you." Their faces remained drawn, blank. No clue from them. Maybe they didn't know. Maybe she didn't want to know.  
  
Ellie stepped from the shadows and joined them. "I'm going, too." It was as forceful as she ever got, but no one refused her the right.  
  
Nodding numbly, Donna followed them back down a white corridor, allowing Leo's hand to rest at her back, to guide her gently through the halls. The room they entered was evidence of some attempt on the hospital's part to make a stark, functional room into something with warmth, comfort. They had been only partially successful.  
  
"Mrs. Bartlet?"  
  
As she looked up, a haggard face tried to smile at her, its tightness evidence of his tension. His green scrubs looked like some macabre Christmas suit, doused in splashes of red. She knew whose blood that was. So much. Too much. An involuntary breath gripped her lungs, bracing her body for the blow he was about to deliver.  
  
She hoped to stay on her feet after he gave her the news. Maybe Leo would catch her, or Ron.  
  
"Mrs. Bartlet," the doctor repeated heavily, then acknowledged the President's daughter. "Doctor Bartlet, I'm Doctor Egris. I'm sorry – "  
  
Oh God! Dear God, no! She closed her eyes and fought to stay upright.  
  
"I'm sorry it took so long." He gave her the typical reassuring physician's smile. "We had to make sure – well, with the MS we wanted to be sure that the medications were not contraindicated."  
  
Slowly, the implications of his words trudged through her brain. They were giving him medications. Dead people didn't get medications.  
  
"The President is being moved to ICU as a precaution so we can keep an eye on him, but I'll take you back there."  
  
"He's – he's alive?" Just say it once.  
  
Egris' face flushed with chagrin as he realized what she was thinking. "Yes. Yes, of course he's alive."  
  
"But he was shot in the head. I saw – " She gulped and fought back the nausea at the memory of that handsome face splattered with blood. Leo slipped a steadying arm around her waist.  
  
"The bullet hit him at the precise angle to pierce the skin and muscle above his left eyebrow, then skim just along the skull. It exited here." He used his own head to demonstrate. "About three inches away from the entrance wound. There's a – dent, basically – in the bone, but the cranium is not compromised, although there is significant epidermal disturbance."  
  
Not compromised? That meant – that meant –  
  
"Internal swelling?" Ellie asked, voice clinical despite the paleness of her face.  
  
"Some," the doctor admitted. "But it seems to be reducing."  
  
"Internal bleeding?"  
  
"Some."  
  
"Pupils?"  
  
"Reacting."  
  
The middle Bartlet girl nodded, mouth tight. "Can we see him?"  
  
"Sure. If you don't mind, two at a time, please. Doctor Bartlet, if you'd like to look over his stats – "  
  
Ellie nodded again. "Thank you, I would." The habitually shy young woman had transformed into a confident physician. Donna wished Jed could see her.  
  
Their conversation had given Donna the moment she needed to take a deep breath and assess the situation. Now, she wanted definite confirmation. "He's going to be all right?"  
  
But the anticipated smile did not come. "Well," Egris conceded, "it certainly looks better than what we originally thought, but he has a severe concussion from the trauma of the impact. We are obviously anxious for him to come out of the anesthesia to assess any effects that might have."  
  
Well, one hurdle leaped, anyway. He was alive. It wasn't November 22, 1963, all over. She wasn't Jackie Kennedy all over. But what about the next hurdle? "Effects?"  
  
Egris opened his mouth to answer, but Ellie beat him to it. "Headache, dizziness, confusion, ringing in the ears, nausea, visual disturbance, loss of balance, memory loss, difficulty concentrating."  
  
The doctor nodded. "In severe cases, convulsions."  
  
Hell, she thought bitterly, he's practically ready to run a marathon. "Those sound a lot like – "  
  
"Like MS symptoms, yes," he agreed.  
  
"How will we know – "  
  
Again, Ellie answered. "A CT scan can tell if the brain is swelling."  
  
"We did that," Egris told them, "and there is some swelling, as I indicated earlier to Doctor Bartlet, but I think it is going down. After that, we'll be able to assess any permanent damage that may have been caused."  
  
Permanent damage?  
  
"What do you mean?" She really didn't want to know.  
  
The two doctors exchanged an uneasy look. Ellie answered. "Some memory loss might not be retrieved. If it's bad enough, a permanent weakness on one side of the body."  
  
Were they serious? She forced herself not to scream. "Do you think any of those things will happen?"  
  
Egris tried to smile, but the gesture fell a bit short. "I really can't tell you that, Mrs. Bartlet," he admitted, "but we are going to do everything we can to prevent it."  
  
"I want to see him." It was a sudden, desperate need. She had to see him, to touch him, to let him know she was there.  
  
"Of course." He turned, and she followed numbly.  
  
He was alive. That was good. And the bullet wound itself had been contained mainly to skin and muscle tissue. Also good. But what had its effects left? What would they find when he woke? Who would she see? Who would he see?  
  
Memory loss. What if –  
  
The horrible thought occurred that he might not even know her – or J.T. What would she do if he didn't? Then an even more significant possibility shook her.  
  
What would the country do with a President who didn't even remember he was President? 


	10. Semper Fi

POV: Donna Spoilers: None Rating: PG Disclaimer: Most of these characters are not mine.  
  
A Dagger Unseen – Chapter Ten A West Wing Story  
  
by MAHC  
  
Donna wasn't sure how long she had sat by the bed, her measurement of time reliant upon the regular and frequent visits by nurses and doctors. They checked IV lines, monitored the EKG, even tucked in sheets that had not been disturbed. She saw the concern in their eyes, and it wasn't just worrying about the President of the United States being lost on their watch. They cared for the man himself.  
  
"Mrs. Bartlet?"  
  
She looked up at the kind smile of a young woman in a colorful version of scrubs. Maybe she had seen her before. There had been so many people in and out.  
  
"How are you doing, ma'am?"  
  
Donna answered automatically. "Fine."  
  
"We're all – we're all pulling for him," she said gently.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
"I mean, I know he's your husband, and I can't imagine what you're feeling right now, but he's, well, he's my President and I just think he's – " She stopped and looked straight at the bed. "He makes us proud, Mrs. Bartlet." She flushed as if she realized maybe she had gone too far for etiquette.  
  
It was hard sometimes when you were too removed from the ordinary, the everyday lives that most Americans led, to realize the impact of one man. Donna had felt it when she was simply Donna Moss, senior assistant to the Deputy Chief of Staff, but as First Lady she had lost some of that outsider's awe, that perception of the aura, the magic that surrounded the leader of the free world. Of course, it was even better knowing the man as she did now. But it surprised her a little, warmed her a great deal, to hear and see the affection people had for him.  
  
She took the young woman's hand and squeezed once. "Thank you."  
  
"I can't imagine anyone wanting to ki – " The nurse bit her lip, cleared her throat roughly and continued. "I just want you to know, ma'am, how much we all admire the President and how hard we are all working to make sure he recovers."  
  
Donna smiled back, appreciating the praise and assurance.  
  
"He's the only President I've ever voted for," the nurse continued, glancing tentatively toward the bed.  
  
"Really?"  
  
"His first election was my first election. And, of course, I voted for him again the second time. I wish he could run again."  
  
"I wish he could hear you say that," Donna told her. "He'd probably have you introducing a bill to amend the Twenty-second Amendment." And she made a mental note to tell him about this young woman if – when – he woke up.  
  
The nurse grinned. "Yes, ma'am. I'd do it." After smoothing the already smooth covers and checking the monitors, she turned back to Donna. "If I can get you anything Mrs. Bartlet – "  
  
"I'm fine. Thank you."  
  
Then she was alone again. No, she corrected herself, not alone. Jed was there. Her eyes fell on her husband and she felt again the tightness grip her throat. He was alive. Thank God he was alive. But Ellie's words still hung in the air.  
  
"Memory loss. Permanent weakness on one side of the body – "  
  
Maybe, she reminded herself. Maybe. They wouldn't know until Jed woke up, and he still showed no signs whatsoever of even a subconscious attempt.  
  
He lay completely still, left arm at his side, the IV feeding a wide array of medicines into his veins in an attempt to control whatever reaction the MS might throw at them. His right arm crossed over his abdomen. A white bandage bound his head, thicker over the wound itself, insufficient, however, to keep the thick hair from sprouting up over it. His brow swelled underneath the gauze, even into the tender tissue around his eye. A flush burned his cheeks, evidence of the low-grade fever he had been running for several hours. She leaned closer and brushed her fingertips over the knuckles of his right hand. He didn't stir.  
  
"Hey," she said, stroking gently along the backs of his fingers. "See, here's the thing. I miss you." God, how she missed him. Missed the richness of his laugh, missed the warmth of his teasing, missed the passion of his kiss, missed the security of his touch.  
  
The machine beeped its even patterns, the only answer his body gave her.  
  
"J.T. misses you," she told him quietly. "Margaret's helping with him, but I think he wants his daddy back." She didn't mention what Margaret had told her that morning. That J.T. was fretting, resisting his bottle, as usual – he wanted mom's skin, not Playtex. That Margaret had little success in calming him until a clip of the President came on television, accompanying yet another aspect of the shooting. At the sound of his father's voice, J.T. had fallen still and turned his head toward the t.v. It tore at her heart to think that Jed's son might never know his father.  
  
The weight of the room closed over her suddenly, pushed her down until she wasn't sure she could even breathe. A wave of inexplicable anger toward her husband swept a red haze across her face. She couldn't explain it, but there it was. The words fell out before she could stop them.  
  
"Don't you leave him, Josiah Bartlet," she ground out. "Don't you dare leave him." Then just as suddenly the feeling was gone and the last word caught in her throat. She let out a shuddering breath, fighting against the sob that pushed upward.  
  
Taking his hand and pressing it to her face, she whispered, "Don't leave me. Please, Jed, don't leave me."  
  
For a second, she thought she felt a twitch from the limp fingers she held and pulled away to watch. But it didn't happen again, so she drew them back to her face and leaned into his touch, wondering if he felt her presence, if he heard what she said. If he would wake and stare at her blankly, his past locked away by his own mind.  
  
She shook away the terrifying image and tried to impose on it a more idyllic scene of those days after J.T.'s birth, when there was no threat, there was no violence. There was only happiness and contentment with her husband and child. Could she ever have that again? She had to hope so. There was nothing else she could do.  
  
"C.J.!"  
  
The crowd of reporters clambered outside the hospital, hands pushed to the sky in hopes of being called on by the press secretary. As usual, she presented a picture of poise and control, but Donna knew this was eating her up, too. She knew how C.J. felt about Jed, knew they had always had a special relationship.  
  
"Steve," she recognized, pointing to the veteran reporter.  
  
"Has the President regained consciousness at all?"  
  
She had already made a simple statement, already given a sparse rundown of his condition, but it provided only a little more information than they already had. The President was still alive, in stable, but serious condition. The vice-president had assumed control under the provisions of the 25th Amendment, but had not taken over as Acting President.  
  
"No." A simple answer to a complicated situation.  
  
"Follow up?" Steve asked again.  
  
C.J. nodded.  
  
"Do the doctors expect him to regain consciousness?"  
  
"The doctors are hopeful, Steve. According to them, the next few hours are the most important ones."  
  
"C.J.!"  
  
"Sandy?"  
  
The slender woman rose. "Are there any leads on the gunman?"  
  
"I can't give out any information that might jeopardize the investigation, Sandy, but I can tell you that the President's injuries have provided several clues as to the location of the shooter. They have also identified the type of weapon from the bullet that was lodged in a partition behind the stage. Ballistics reports indicates it was an M1 rifle. I have some information here about the M1. It was adopted by the military as standard issue rifle in 1932, and has been refined constantly since then. A 'sniper version' was created and became known as the M1C and later another model, the M1D was also introduced. The M1D is a .30 caliber rifle with an eight- round internal box magazine. It is frequently used with a M84 telescope, which the FBI believes was used in the shooting of the President." She couldn't suppress a wince at the blunt statement.  
  
Clearing her throat quickly, the press secretary managed to continue. "The M1C became the Marine Corps standard issue sniper rifle in 1951 and was used extensively in the Korean Conflict."  
  
Leo stood near Donna, looking intensely at the television, nodding with tight lips as the information came across.  
  
"Is that true?" Donna asked him. "Do they have a lead?"  
  
One look from him told her that C.J.'s report was an optimistic spin on a not-so-optimistic situation.  
  
"Why? Why tell them that? Why not say we have no idea who did this."  
  
"Well, for one thing, that scares people. The President of the United States has been shot. We can't let them think someone can get away with that."  
  
She stepped toward the chief of staff, suddenly angry, frustrated. "Is someone getting away with it? What if you never catch him? What are you going to do? Find a Lee Harvey Oswald to pin this on and let the real assassins roam free? Forty years from now will they still be discussing 'who shot Bartlet'?"  
  
"Donna – "  
  
"No! Someone shot my husband. I want to know who. I want to see the bastard found and punished for what he did." She was shaking now. "I want to know! Do you understand?"  
  
She felt a hand at her elbow, let Jed's best friend lead her away from the sympathetic eyes of the others in the room. "Donna," he said softly as they leaned against a pale blue wall, "there's a chance that – that this person might try again."  
  
It was as if he had doused her with cold water, and her anger drained out with it. Dear God! Hadn't this been enough? "What – why – "  
  
"If he really wanted to kill the President, and if he thinks the President is in such a condition that it might be easy to finish the job, he could take a chance, get careless."  
  
"So you are setting him up. And Jed is the bait?" Her stomach churned. How could they do this? How could they risk the life of the President of the United States? But even as she asked herself that, she knew it was the only life that would work, that would draw the murderer out.  
  
"Donna?"  
  
The familiar voice caught her attention and she turned to see her brother standing a few feet away, forgiven by the Secret Service under the circumstances.  
  
"Gino!"  
  
He opened his arms, and she fell into them, hugging him hard. She had talked with him since his unfortunate intrusion and resulting banishment, but they had not seen each other.  
  
"Donna, I know I'm not supposed to – well, I had to come – "  
  
She nodded, smiling at him through the tears. "Of course. I'm glad you came. I knew you would. I told them to let you in when you got here."  
  
"How is he?"  
  
"Stable."  
  
"I'm so sorry, Donna. For everything. I wish – "  
  
"I know," she told him simply and touched his face. "Mom and Dad are giving Margaret a break with J.T. right now but they'll be here later. Do you want to go to the White House?"  
  
He shook his head. "I'll stay here with you if that's all right."  
  
She nodded, grateful for his presence, for someone she didn't have to impress with her strength and strong demeanor as First Lady. Still holding his hand, she turned to watch the end of the press conference.  
  
C.J. was wrapping up. "We hope to have a spokesman here for the FBI later today. I believe she will be taking questions regarding security in and around the D.C. area."  
  
"Will she have more information on the shooting?"  
  
"You'll have to ask her that." The press secretary shifted slightly, slipping her glasses on. "Now if you'll bear with me for just a minute, the First Lady has given me a statement to read to you."  
  
Donna swallowed, going over the words again in her head, words that Will and Toby had crafted for her, words that she edited, words that she felt with all her heart.  
  
The silence was even clear over the airwaves. "'My fellow Americans and world friends, our family would like to express our appreciation for the emails, the calls, the telegrams, and especially the prayers. This is a difficult time for all of us. This is a complex world, and even though we try, we don't always understand the course of events. In this time, we must draw upon every bit of grit and determination that we have. Our nation must stand firm and continue as a beacon of freedom for everyone and show the world that we cannot be bullied, that we cannot be distracted from our goals. We must put our faith in God and trust in His omnipotent wisdom. My husband is an optimist, and so am I. I look forward to the day when Jed and I can both stand before you to deliver our thanks personally. Please continue with your prayers for him and for our country.'" The press secretary looked up briefly, her eyes moist. She wasn't the only one. "Thank you," she finished, gathering her notes and stepping from the podium almost in the same move.  
  
Gino squeezed her hand. "That was good."  
  
"Toby wrote most of it. And Will."  
  
"I heard some of you in there, too."  
  
"A little," she admitted.  
  
"Listen, I'm gonna stay here, all right? If I get kicked out this time, Jed's gonna have to wake up and do it himself."  
  
She smiled. "That I want to see." And she sat for a long time with her brother on the couch, hand in hand, as they waited.  
  
Night had descended again and Jed still slept in his private world, refusing to let her in, to let anyone in. She began to wonder how long it would last, if it were possible that he might never come out of it. The dressing had been changed, the bulky bandage replaced by a more streamlined one that covered only the direct wound. It gave her a better view of the bruising and she winced every time she looked at it.  
  
She was tired, physically, mentally, and emotionally. But she would not leave him. They had brought J.T. to the hospital for her to feed and nurture, but it was no place for a baby, and her parents had taken him back to the Residence. She missed him, but at the moment, her place was with Jed.  
  
"Donna?"  
  
Hell, she hadn't heard the door open. Wiping at her eyes, she angled her head enough to catch a glimpse of the visitor. Josh Lyman stood just inside the door, his body hunched a little, waiting for her to greet him or send him away.  
  
"Hey," she said, managing a painful smile.  
  
"You okay?"  
  
"Dandy."  
  
"Yeah." He tilted his head toward the bed. "How's he doin'?"  
  
Donna got a better view of her former boss as he stepped farther into the room. His pale face stared at the President's still form. He winced at something, the bandage or the swelling or just the sight of Jed Bartlet stripped of his greatest strengths: his keen mind, his sharp wit, his compassionate warmth.  
  
"Holding his own," she told him. It was all she knew.  
  
"That's good, right?"  
  
"Better than not."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
They were quiet for a moment, her sitting in the chair, him standing. Then he took a deep breath and said, "I wish I could – "  
  
"Yeah." She wasn't sure what he was going to say. Maybe he wasn't either, but the sentiment was enough. She knew how he felt, about her and about the President.  
  
"You need anything?"  
  
She shook her head and took his hand, squeezing it gratefully.  
  
"Okay. I just thought maybe you'd want to talk or something." He ran his other hand through the wild hair.  
  
She smiled at the characteristic gesture. "I've been talking."  
  
At his frown, she nodded toward the bed.  
  
"Ah." He smiled a little. "No answer?"  
  
Projecting as much confidence as she could, she assured him, "Not yet."  
  
"You want me to bring you somethin' to drink? A Coke, maybe?"  
  
Those walls contracted a little more and she shook her head. "I'll go out with you. I need to take a breath, myself."  
  
Surprise crossed his face, but he wasted little time stepping to offer his hand as she rose. "Sure. That's a good idea."  
  
With a lingering glance toward the bed, she thought, "Don't start without me," and followed her former boss out the door.  
  
Pushing through the doors, they literally almost ran into Mikki, Josh's assistant. She jerked, startled, then smiled.  
  
"I brought the files you wanted for Mister McGarry, Josh," she said, holding them out to him.  
  
"It's late," he said. "You should be home."  
  
"No problem."  
  
"Thanks." He wasn't even looking at her, still focused on Donna.  
  
"You going out?"  
  
"Just getting Mrs. Bartlet something to drink."  
  
Donna looked back at the door with a last minute worry that Jed would wake up while she was gone. She wished now she hadn't insisted that Gino step to the cafeteria to grab a bite. Mikki followed her gaze.  
  
"Do you want me to stay?" she asked.  
  
"What?" Donna hadn't realized she was so transparent.  
  
"Do you want me to stay with the President?" Mikki repeated. "While you're gone."  
  
Then at least, if he woke up he wouldn't be alone. "You don't mind?"  
  
"Not at all," she assured her.  
  
Just for a few minutes. It wouldn't hurt. "Thanks. I'll be right back."  
  
The assistant smiled. "Take your time, Mrs. Bartlet. I'll take care of the President."  
  
Josh took her elbow, guiding her down the hall. "It'll be okay, Donna. Just for a few minutes."  
  
"Sure." If he said so.  
  
As they stepped into the outer waiting room, she saw Leo and Ron hunched over something, photograph perhaps. Her heart pounded. Oh God, don't let it be another one of those. Don't let them be looking at Jed and me –  
  
But the expressions on the two when they looked up did not show embarrassment for her. They were hard, as if they had been concentrating. Leo turned slightly, a move that served sufficiently as a greeting.  
  
"Something?" she asked, hoping it was and also hoping it wasn't.  
  
"Maybe," Ron answered, extending the glossy picture to her.  
  
She took it in trembling fingers and was relieved to see it was simply an official photo of some group of people. On closer inspection, she could tell they were mostly Asian and must have been part of a relatively important organization in their country. The central focus was a man about fifty. Surrounding him were people of various ages, some carrying cameras, some with notebooks. It appeared to have been an impromptu click of the shutter to commemorate some gathering. From a quick count she made out fifteen people, some smiling, some presenting their best stoic faces to the camera. She recognized none of them.  
  
Glancing up, she shrugged. "What is this?"  
  
Leo said, "It's a publicity shot of advisors and aides to the president of North Korea."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"We found it in an album of photographs in Tony Fahrwell's apartment," Ron explained. "Part of a collection apparently to show off his work."  
  
"But you knew he photographed the Korean president, didn't you?" she wondered.  
  
"We are looking at every lead," Ron told her.  
  
Nodding, she handed back the photograph and stood near the window. Josh appeared in a moment with a Fresca.  
  
"How did you know I liked Fresca?" she asked, surprised.  
  
He grinned. "One evening a while back, the President was turning the Mess upside down trying to find you one."  
  
She smiled, remembering that night. She was probably six months pregnant and had a sudden craving for the drink. Jed had disappeared for half and hour and returned, out of breath, but victorious, with the green can held high.  
  
Wishing her husband were the one offering it to her again, she said, "Thanks," and took it.  
  
They stood together, staring out the window, content to remain silent as she sipped the tangy beverage. After a while, Josh slipped an arm around her shoulder and she leaned into him gratefully.  
  
"Your secretary was kind to stay with Jed."  
  
"Mikki? I'm sure she didn't mind."  
  
"She's doing a good job?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"I still think it's odd that someone who attended the Naval Academy and served in the Marines is working as an assistant."  
  
He shrugged. "I couldn't pass her up. You should see her vita."  
  
"Impressive?"  
  
"Her list of medals goes for half a page."  
  
"And that qualifies her as your secretary?" Pushing back a pang of jealousy, she teased him. He didn't seem to mind.  
  
"Actually, she also served in communications, in the journalism division."  
  
Donna fell into the conversation more, enjoying the chance to talk about something other than the event that dominated every other discussion in the nation. "A woman of many talents? Any others you're familiar with?"  
  
He smirked. "I knew you'd be jealous. Well, you made your choice, Missy."  
  
"Missy?"  
  
But he wasn't deterred. "Yep. You'll just have to live with it. If the best you could do was the President of the United States – "  
  
He faltered, the gravity of the situation suddenly sucking away his humor. "I'm sorry, Donna," he said. "I'm so – "  
  
"It's okay," she assured him, turning in his arms. "I know. So, she's a journalist?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Mikki. She's a journalist?"  
  
"Oh. Yeah. But I think she just took the pictures mostly. Somebody else wrote the stories."  
  
"Took the pictures?"  
  
An impossible idea flashed into her brain. Impossible. The bizarre scenario that she considered couldn't be right. She tried to push it down. It was ridiculous. Absolutely ridic –  
  
"Donna?" Josh was staring at her, his eyes sharp.  
  
"What?"  
  
"You look – what are you thinking?"  
  
How could she tell him that? It was impossible. Right? "I don't know. It's nothing. It's ridiculous. She's a photographer, but that doesn't mean – "  
  
Suddenly, she saw the same ridiculous idea in Josh's eyes. "My God, Donna. You don't think that – surely she couldn't – "  
  
"What were some of those medals for, Josh? Could you tell?"  
  
His arms fell to his side and he stepped back. "I don't – let me think. There was one for some kind of mission completion with distinction."  
  
"Marksmanship? Was there one for marksmanship?"  
  
"I – maybe. I'm not – "  
  
Ron Butterfield appeared next to them, his strong instincts apparently sensing something, the photograph still in his hand. Donna turned and jerked it from him.  
  
"Look at this, Josh," she demanded. No time for courtesy anymore.  
  
He took it, studied it briefly, then gasped.  
  
"Josh?" Leo asked, voice quickening as he approached.  
  
"I just – I think – " he stammered, unable to pull the words together.  
  
"You think what?" Ron demanded.  
  
"Mikki."  
  
Running cold, her blood slogged through her veins. Her ears pounded. "Is it?" But she didn't really need him to repeat it.  
  
He pointed to a figure in the back row, her delicate features marred by the harsh glare from under those dark brows, the camera strap just visible across her left shoulder. "That's Mikki. I'm sure of it."  
  
Before he could finish, the picture had been snatched from his hands by the President's head of security. "Show me," he urged, and Josh pointed again.  
  
"This is your secretary?"  
  
"Assistant."  
  
"She has access to areas of the White House?"  
  
His voice sounded sick when he answered. "Yeah."  
  
"Ron," Donna groaned, "she could have taken those pictures." She swallowed, feeling sick again. "She was a Marine. We trained her. We trained her to kill – "  
  
"Where is she now?"  
  
Where is she? Oh God!  
  
Josh pointed back the way they came. "She's with – she's in – "  
  
But Ron was gone, flying down the hallway toward Jed's room. Donna raced behind him, still unbelieving. How could they have been so blind? How could they not have seen it? Dear God, please keep him safe! Please stop her!  
  
"Mrs. Bartlet! Stay back!" Someone called to her, but she ignored it.  
  
Her breath came in gasps. Chaos had broken lose in the corridors, with agents sprinting behind them. If anyone thought to hold her back physically, they either had other jobs or they knew it would do no good. She was right at Ron's heels.  
  
Please God! Please!  
  
They pounded down the hallway, a frantic group, picking up alarmed doctors and nurses every step. They had to be almost there. He would be okay. There would be nothing to this.  
  
Please God! Please!  
  
Ron barked orders to clear the path before them. People leapt against the walls, trays flew from the hands of startled orderlies, empty gurneys sailed across checkerboard tiles, pushed away by racing bodies.  
  
Almost there. Surely they were almost there.  
  
And then they were. She saw the double doors ahead, prayed harder that they were in time, that nothing had happened yet. Ron was skidding to stop himself before he passed the entrance, bunching up the crowd that hurled behind him.  
  
Thank you, God! Thank You for –  
  
The powerful echo of the gunshot shattered her prayer in mid-praise. 


	11. Deja Vous All Over Again

POV: Donna Spoilers: None as far as I know. Rating: PG Disclaimer: A few of these characters are mine, but AS created Jed, Donna, the Bartlet girls, Leo, C.J., Ron – well, you know. The doctors, Gino, and J.T. are mine.  
  
A Dagger Unseen – Chapter Eleven A West Wing Story  
  
by MAHC  
  
As someone's scream broke the air, Ron Butterfield plowed through the doors into the Presidential suite. Chaos exploded. Jonah dived on top of her, throwing her on the ground and covering her with his body. She heard the footsteps of the agents who rushed by her, who plunged in after their boss, throwing themselves into harm's way for their country, for their Commander- in-Chief – for her husband. Another shot cracked in the air, then echoing ricochets of gunfire obliterated other individual weapon sounds.  
  
"Get down! Get down!" That was Ron's voice, commanding, strong, but even it betrayed a touch of hot panic in the sudden cacophony that erupted in the room. "Not him! He's clear! Not him!" More screams, more gunfire, more chaos.  
  
Then silence fell, as sudden and startling as the noise. The only sound she heard was the overwhelming pounding of her heart. Somehow, she blinked enough to see again, to prod her brain into some semblance of coherent thought.  
  
"We're clear!" Ron's voice again. "Get a doctor in here, now!"  
  
Jonah eased off her just a little, but it was enough. Pushing up from her protection with a sickening sense of deja vu, she strained to see through the open doors, then almost wished she hadn't.  
  
"Oh my God!"  
  
Blood. The room was splattered red, Jackson Pollack bursts against the walls, across the floor.  
  
"Jed!" she cried out, scrambling to her feet, rushing to the doorway before anyone could stop her. As she stood at the entrance, she saw that nothing within ten feet had been spared the spray of crimson. To her left, against a millwork cabinet lay the body of Josh's assistant, the assailant – and apparently the source of most of the blood, which still seeped from her body – but Donna knew it was just a body now – as it lay twisted against the woodwork, ripped with Secret Service bullets. The assassin might have gotten in one shot, but it was the last one she would ever get. Four agents held their guns on the mutilated body. In some bizarre humor, Donna almost laughed at the uselessness of that precaution. There was no life left there – that was obvious.  
  
Then, hesitantly, she turned toward the bed, dreading what she would see, trying to prepare her brain for something it could never be prepared for. The machinery had been overturned in the melee, and lay smashed and mangled on the floor. More blood, staining the white sheets, splashed against the monitors and coated the occupants of the bed.  
  
Occupants. Occupants?  
  
When her mind cleared enough to register what she saw, she still wasn't sure it could be real. Jed's body had twisted toward the rail, sticky red splattered over him, but she saw only his head and shoulders because sprawled across him, face down, was another body.  
  
"Gino!" she cried, "Oh God!"  
  
"Stand back!" Ron yelled, arms held out to keep the sudden rush of witnesses away. "Let the doctors in."  
  
Dr. Egris pushed his way through the crowd, followed by at least three other medical personnel tugging along a crash cart. Two skidded to a halt at the end of the bed and hovered over Gino's limp form. Egris pulled the other one with him to minister to the President, running his hands over the exposed upper body. She saw to her horror that Jed's arm was flung over the rail, blood coursing from the gash where the IV lines had been jerked out when the pole fell. Fluid drained onto the floor, useless. Cursing, Egris grabbed the limb and raised it above the rail, clutching his hands over the wound, trying to stem the flow of blood.  
  
"Get me a tourniquet, a pressure pack, something!" he yelled, and a nurse hurried in behind him almost immediately. Donna couldn't move, couldn't quite register what had happened.  
  
A gurney appeared and they eased the bulk of her brother onto it, cradling his left arm and shoulder. Donna saw the huge spread of blood across his jacket, heard his groan. She couldn't breathe, didn't know where to look. Her brother and her husband lay at the center of a wildly nightmarish scene, and she didn't even know if either of them was still alive.  
  
Egris worked on the President, his actions rapid, efficient, intense. Her eyes sought the monitor to see if Jed's heart still beat, but the machine lay on the floor, dark and silent, its surface marred by gruesome splotches.  
  
"We have an entrance wound upper left chest," a doctor barked out over her brother's body, ripping the material away from the wound as they settled Gino onto a cart. "No exit. Prep OR Three."  
  
She swung her attention back and forth. Couldn't somebody tell her what was happening? "Is he dead?"she asked, not sure if she meant her brother or her husband.  
  
But no one answered. They were too busy scrambling to stabilize the patient on the cart. Was he the one maybe they thought had the best chance of survival? Was he the one who was still alive?  
  
"Let's go!" someone yelled, and the group pushed from the room.  
  
Donna fought the need to follow the cart, to go with Gino, to look after him. But a quick look back at her husband kept her rooted to the spot, fear clenching at her throat again. Blood coated the covers over his legs and abdomen and splattered across his face and shoulders. Egris still held onto his arm, teeth gritted in an effort to put enough pressure on it. A nurse stood by him, looking stunned, her hands holding out a white bandage. But did it matter? Jed's face was white, chalky. She couldn't even tell if he was still breathing.  
  
"Doctor!" she cried, grabbing at Egris' arm. "Is he – my husband, is he – "  
  
For the first time, the physician seemed to realize she was there. Motioning for the packet the nurse extended toward him, he shifted a little so she could see his face, haggard and a little shocked.  
  
She braced herself for his words, for the horrible and final pronouncement.  
  
Then he smiled. Just a slight upturn of his lips, but it was enough.  
  
"Most of this is not his blood, Mrs. Bartlet," he explained, positioning a thick pack over the arm wound and beginning to wrap gauze around it. "He wasn't hit again. The IV lines were pulled out of his arm when the pole fell, made a nasty tear, and he lost blood with that, but we've got it stopped now. I want to take him into an OR so Dr. Menian can stitch it up. He's the best plastic man we have." He looked at her squarely. "He'll be all right. That young man saved his life."  
  
The adrenaline that had propelled her fast behind Ron a few minutes earlier vanished, and with it her strength. She felt hands catching her elbows as her knees turned to jelly.  
  
"Ma'am?" Jonah asked. "Do you need to sit down?"  
  
"Mrs. Bartlet," Ron interrupted, gently, but firmly, "I need you to leave the room now. They're going to move the President, and this is a crime scene. If you would – "  
  
She nodded and allowed Jonah to lead her out.  
  
"This way," someone said, and she soon found herself settled into someone's private office, giving in to violent, uncontrollable tremors as her body finally had time to react to the unimaginable experience it had just had.  
  
"Mrs. Bartlet?" The same young nurse who had taken care of Jed earlier stepped inside the room, blanket over her arm. "It will take a while for them to stitch up the President, and then before he is situated in another room. I know you haven't slept, ma'am. I've seen you. Why don't you stretch out on the couch here and just rest a bit?"  
  
Donna bit back a protest. She didn't want to rest, didn't want to miss one moment, one chance to convince herself things were okay, that Jed was fine, and that Gino would be fine. But she felt the heaviness in her eyelids, knew the let down after the surge of energy.  
  
"I promise to come get you as soon as he wakes up."  
  
Well, maybe just a few minutes, just to rest her eyes.  
  
She nodded and allowed the younger woman to drape the warm material over her. Just a few minutes, no longer.  
  
Consciousness came back to her slowly as she swam through the fading black toward the light. Fighting against the surreal haze, Donna couldn't tell how long it took before the sudden memory of what her mind had last seen and heard overwhelmed her. She had only one thought.  
  
"Jed!"  
  
Firm hands held her shoulders. "Mrs. Bartlet?" She didn't recognize that voice.  
  
"Donna?" But that was Leo, his tone unusually soft.  
  
She looked up into his face, squinting a bit, searching for information, for reassurance. "Jed?"  
  
The first voice answered, and Donna swung around to look at an older physician, her white coat stitched with the name Dr. Maria Nuenez. "We've moved him to the East Suite, ma'am."  
  
"Is he – "  
  
"He's all right. Dr. Menian sutured his arm where the IVs came out. He's our best plastic surgeon. It looks good. Mostly superficial damage."  
  
She threw off the blanket, shook the fog from her brain, and stood. "Can I see him?"  
  
Dr. Nuenez nodded. "Of course. His daughters are already in there. I think he's waiting for you before he wakes up."  
  
"Yes. Fine." No small talk. She had to see Jed. She had to know he really was all right. Her last vision of him had been gruesome. Blood covering his body, splattering his face, his arm ripped open and pouring his life out onto the floor. Dear God, had it been real?  
  
Then she remembered something else. "Gino?"  
  
"Her brother," Leo explained to the doctor, who frowned in puzzlement. "The man who saved the President's life."  
  
Nuenez smiled. "He's still in surgery, but he'll be all right. Dr. Egris has already retrieved the bullet and it's just a matter of closing the wound. I'll let you know when he's out of recovery."  
  
Thank God. Thank God that Gino was all right. And thank God that he had somehow, incredibly, saved Jed.  
  
"I want to see my husband now," Donna decided, her voice stronger and showing traces of the confidence she had begun cultivating as First Lady.  
  
Leo smiled and fell into step next to her as they followed Nuenez out of the office and down the hallway, now a virtual fortress lined with stone- faced Secret Service agents. No one was getting in here now. She figured even J.T. might need special clearance.  
  
The room Jed was in was almost an exact mirror of the previous one, except this one was pristine with white sheets and machinery that wasn't bullet- ridden. They had cleaned the blood from him and provided fresh bandages for his head and for the newly injured arm. She wondered vaguely if they had shaved the hair from his forearm before they wrapped it. Otherwise, it would smart when they removed the tape. The IV lines hung on the other side now, carefully inserted into his right arm this time, continuing to feed the needed medicines to his body. His color was better, still a little flushed, but that was preferable to the bone white she had seen after the melee. In the rush, they apparently had not bothered to try to slip another gown over him, and he lay bare-chested, the blanket covering him to just above his waist. She hoped he wasn't cold, didn't want him to suffer anymore than he already had. Ellie, Liz, and Zoey stood around the bed, each girl touching him somewhere. One hand on a shoulder, another against his cheek, another at a knee. They smiled tightly at her as she entered.  
  
"Has he regained consciousness at all?" she asked to no one in particular.  
  
Nuenez answered. "No, ma'am, but he's showing signs of coming around soon. His brain activity is getting closer to the surface and he's moving around more."  
  
"You think soon?" She was excited and terrified at once. What would he remember? What would he know?  
  
As if she sensed her thoughts, the physician put a hand on Donna's arm and said softly, "I do want to remind you, Mrs. Bartlet, that we don't know yet if there was any lingering damage as a result of the concussion. It was severe, which is why he's been out so long."  
  
Donna nodded. She didn't need to be reminded. That had haunted her for days now.  
  
"But just because he might have difficulty at first," the doctor added hastily, "doesn't mean it won't get better. As his brain heals itself, we should see improvement."  
  
What was she saying? Improvement from what? What were they talking about here?  
  
"Ellie?" It was the first person she thought of. Jed's daughter, Abbey's daughter, would give it to her straight.  
  
The middle Bartlet girl gave her father's knee a soft pat and stepped back to meet her step-mother squarely. "With such an injury, Donna, he is likely to have some problems at first. Like we mentioned earlier. Memory loss. Weakness in his limbs, maybe."  
  
"What are the chances?"  
  
Neither doctor wanted to commit. Nuenez said, "Depends a lot on the patient. I just want you not to get your hopes up too much. I think eventually he'll be okay. It may just take some time."  
  
"Are you saying he might not remember – me?"  
  
Ellie pressed her lips together for a moment, then responded. "It's a possibility, Donna. After all, you are relatively new to him. The brain tends to pull out information it is more familiar with, that it has kept for a longer time."  
  
"And J.T.?"  
  
Nuenez shook her head. "We just don't know."  
  
Now Leo stepped forward. "Doctor, what are the chances he doesn't – that there are other things he doesn't remember?"  
  
"I would think, Mr. McGarry, that if something is foremost in his mind, like the heavy responsibilities he has as President, there is a good chance it will remain in his memory. But, of course, "she added, "we won't know until he wakes up."  
  
He might know his position in the country, but not know his wife, Donna thought bitterly. How fair is that? Anger flared inside her. He would have the burdens of a nation still weighing him down, but not the comfort of a lover, of a family.  
  
"It may take time, Mrs. Bartlet," the doctor said again. "There just may be some things he doesn't remember at first."  
  
"Or ever?" she asked, needing to know, needing to hear the truth.  
  
Nuenez hesitated, then nodded. "Or ever. Possibly."  
  
"What do we do if he doesn't remember? What are the first steps?"  
  
Liz stepped forward and laid a hand on her arm. The President's oldest daughter had been the quietest, the most reserved about their marriage. It was not that she didn't like Donna, but maybe it was just hard to see her father with anyone else but her mother. It hadn't matter that much, since Liz lived away and they saw each other rarely, but it made for a certain awkwardness when they were together.  
  
Donna found herself bracing for whatever Liz had to say. But the face that looked so much like Abbey's smiled up at her now with a tenderness Donna had never seen before, at least not directed toward her. "Donna, Dad loves you very much, and I know you love him. We all know that. Let that be your first step. Let him know that. The rest can wait."  
  
Tears burned her eyes, and she felt herself enfolded in the embrace of all three girls, a bond among them in their love for one man. But she didn't want to wait, didn't know if she could stand it when he woke and had no idea who was there holding his hand. Didn't remember that they shared a bed, a child, a life. Despite the support of his family, she needed him to be there again, to know her again, to love her again.  
  
And there was something perhaps even bigger. Glancing over at Leo, she knew he was wondering what they would do if the President of the United States awoke and didn't have the foggiest notion that he was the Chief Executive.  
  
But all the "what ifs" dropped away as reality took over. A groan from the bed drew their attention. She bent over him, squeezing his hand, her heart pounding, her body still shaking in anticipation and anxiety. Dr. Nuenez stepped to the same position on the other side of the bed and rested her hand on the rail. The others in the room crowded as close as they could without intruding on the moment too much.  
  
He shifted restlessly, groaning again as his head pushed into the pillow, pressing against the wound. His eyes, still closed, tightened against the obvious discomfort, and Donna ached to do something to help him, to take the pain on herself. The best she could do, though, was gently brush the hair at his temple and murmur soothing words.  
  
"It's all right, Jed. You're okay. Come on back to us."  
  
She was vaguely aware of the crowd gathering closer. After a few moments of struggling with his own body, shuffling beneath the covers, he managed to break the surface of consciousness.  
  
His eyes opened to a squint and he grimaced, even though the lights were on dim. Trying to shield them, he raised his right arm until the IV lines caught on the rail.  
  
"Jed?" she said tentatively, willing her voice to stop wavering.  
  
"Whoa," said Dr. Nuenez quickly, and Donna knew she certainly wanted to avoid another accident. "Hang on, sir."  
  
With a quick twist, she freed the tubes, and Jed let his hand continue upward to touch his fingers to his bandaged head. Wincing, he sucked in a breath between his teeth as he pushed on the wound. With a grunt, he looked to his left toward the doctor; then his eyes drifted to the right, lingering only briefly on Leo, and apparently missing the ones behind them altogether.  
  
Finally, he came to her. She wanted to say something, yearned to tell him it was okay, he was okay, but she was frozen, terrified that if she called his name again and he didn't answer, it would prove her fears true – all of their fears true.  
  
He stared at her, their eyes locking, and she fought back a sob as she saw the blankness there, the glazed cloud, devoid of recognition, heavy with confusion. A frown pinched his brow, and he swallowed, closing his eyes again.  
  
Damn it! Damn it! Pushing back a sob, she fought to keep her sanity, to take things one step at a time. What now? What would they do now? Leo would know what to do about the country, surely he would. But what about his family? His wife? His son?  
  
Then she saw his eyes on her again, lingering in silence until amazingly, miraculously, he smiled. Not his usual mischievous grin, or even his satisfied smirk, but it was definitely a smile.  
  
Afraid to tempt fate, to challenge the moment, she held her breath until he finally parted his lips and spoke.  
  
It was weak and thready, but perfectly clear.  
  
"Hey, Baby." 


	12. This Time They Were Actually Aiming at Y...

POV: Donna Spoilers: None, I don't think Rating: PG Disclaimer: J.T. is my creation, as are the doctors and Gino. Jed, Donna, Leo, C.J., Josh, and Toby are AS's. Darn.  
  
A Dagger Unseen – Chapter Twelve A West Wing Story  
  
by MAHC  
  
Donna felt her chest lift in a deep breath and push her body on through to alertness. Blinking twice, she rose from the folding cot the attending nurse had brought her and stood, glancing around the room. The light that slashed through the window blinds was sufficient to illuminate everything, so she surmised it was at least seven a.m., maybe a little later. Almost immediately her mind shifted to the bed and the figure in it. Jed lay on his back, head elevated slightly by an extra pillow, the bandaged left arm resting on his stomach, the other resting by his side.  
  
She took the time to study him, allowed this luxury only as long as he remained asleep. If he were awake, she knew he would resent the careful perusal, the pointed assessment of his health, so she took advantage of the moment. The swelling had lessened a bit around his eye, but the bruising was deepening, swiping a paint-brush of purple and green toward his temple. A nurse had removed the bandage over his forehead, and she saw, really for the first time, the result of the bullet that came so close to taking him from her. It was surprisingly minor looking, actually, for what she had imagined. A slash that extended from just above his brow around to just behind his ear, pulled together with black stitches. They had shaved a narrow strip of hair for easier access, but the new growth had already begun to push its way through. She resisted the urge to brush her finger over the area, her need to comfort bowing to the fear of causing more pain.  
  
They still had not been able to assess his condition completely since he had woken and recognized her earlier. And although his few muttered words had given them all a boost, and they seemed a little more content to wait him out a bit longer, she was growing impatient to judge for herself just how the trauma might have affected him, just how much he remembered – or how much he had forgotten, or even what kinds of physical consequences the injury had left him with.  
  
So far, her prayers had been answered. He was alive. He knew her. Maybe that was all she should have expected, and certainly she thanked God for that. But selfishly, greedily, she wanted more; she wanted her Jed back like he was. Just as she was considering trying to talk him to the surface, the squeak of the door drew her attention. She smiled a little as Leo walked in.  
  
"How ya doin'?" he asked quietly, and she noted that he had finally changed from the suit he had worn since the shooting.  
  
"I'm okay," she told him. It was close enough to the truth.  
  
"He come around again yet?" He nodded toward the bed.  
  
"No." Anxiety sharpened her response more than she had intended.  
  
Leo let out a quick breath. "Give him time, Donna. He'll do it. Jed Bartlet is the most stubborn man I know."  
  
She smiled slightly.  
  
Glancing toward the bed, he added firmly, "And he's a fighter."  
  
"I know." But how much fighting could one man take? How much embattlement? What if he'd just had enough? Shrugging off those uncomfortable thoughts, she shifted subjects. "What's going on out there?"  
  
"C.J.'s trying to downplay the incident."  
  
"Incident?" She laughed humorlessly. "An attack on the President of the United States in his hospital room by one of his own staff? A possible conspiracy somehow wrapped up in North Korea? The President's brother-in- law wounded saving his life?"  
  
Leo raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement of her point. "You think 'incident' is too dramatic?" he asked in sarcasm.  
  
Donna shook her head. "I wish C.J. luck. She's going to need it."  
  
"If anyone can do it – "  
  
"That's true," she agreed. C.J. could, if anyone could.  
  
"You wanna hear some irony?" Leo asked.  
  
She tilted her head up, inviting him to continue.  
  
"The North Korean President has sent his best wishes and has offered to resume talks about nuclear buildup."  
  
Imagine that. Guilt? Or self-preservation, since the entire world was now looking at him as the possible instigator for the attempted murder of the leader of the free world?  
  
"A blessing in disguise?" she wondered.  
  
Leo shrugged. "In the words of Winston Churchill, 'at the moment it seems quite effectively disguised.'"  
  
She silently agreed.  
  
"In the meantime," Leo continued, with more energy, "when's Sleeping Beauty gonna come around?"  
  
A low grunt spun them instantly toward the bed, and a familiar, if strained and slurred, voice answered before she could. "Who – ya – callin' – beauty?"  
  
Her heart jumped ahead of her lungs for a minute, almost stealing her breath. "Jed?"  
  
His eyes remained closed, but he lifted the hand from his stomach and wiggled his fingers in greeting. She caught them, holding on tight, as much for her own reassurance as for his.  
  
"How're you feeling?" she asked gently.  
  
He tried to shift, but stopped abruptly and gritted his teeth. "Uh, like – some – body – hit – me – with – a – base – ball – bat."  
  
She exchanged a look with the chief of staff, both at the words and at the gait with which they were delivered. She squeezed his hand harder, trying not to encourage the spark of fear that his halting speech had ignited.  
  
"That's pretty close, sir," Leo admitted, his own expression guarded.  
  
Eyes still closed, Jed responded with only, "Yeah?"  
  
"Yeah," she answered, but hurried to add, "But you're okay."  
  
"You?"  
  
"Me, too. I'm fine." Another squeeze for emphasis.  
  
A pause, then, "J. – T.?"  
  
Relief swept over her, almost making her sway with its force. She had not wanted to push, even though the temptation to test his memory was strong. Now, her two paramount questions had been answered. Would he know her? Would he remember their son?  
  
"Yes," she assured, bringing his hand to her face. "He's great. Mom is with him. Dad's with Gino."  
  
Jed's lips lifted slightly, almost a smile. "Lock – door – next – time."  
  
She smirked at Leo's flush, delighted that her husband recalled that ignominious incident, as well. Fears for his memory faded. "You bet."  
  
The Chief of Staff backed away. "I'll let the doctor know you're awake," he decided, but before he could reach the door, Jed's voice stopped him.  
  
"Russell?"  
  
"Yes, sir. He's sitting in for you, Mister President."  
  
"Great." Even flat on his back, Jed Bartlet managed sarcasm quite well.  
  
"He's doing fine, sir. Josh is with him. And Toby checks in."  
  
"– kay."  
  
Clearing his throat, Leo stepped outside the room, leaving the President and First Lady alone. Donna watched Jed for a moment, took in the pinch of discomfort between his brows, the tightness around his mouth. He was in pain, to be expected, since the doctors hesitated to administer too much morphine. That could be the cause of his slow speech, his uncharacteristic economy of words. Couldn't it?  
  
As she stared at the man she had been terrified would leave her, his eyes finally opened, squinting into the unaccustomed light.  
  
"Donna." An acknowledgement, a satisfaction.  
  
"I'm here, Baby," she told him, echoing his own nickname for her. Gently, she shifted so that both her hands clasped his.  
  
They stared at each other for a long time, and she was content to let his eyes linger on points of her face, as if he hadn't seen her in months. Finally, she leaned over and kissed his lips softly, so glad that it wasn't a final goodbye, but a welcome back.  
  
"I missed you," she told him, brushing another kiss over his forehead before pulling back.  
  
"Have – I – been – gone?" he asked, and she wasn't sure if he was joking or serious.  
  
"Do you remember anything about what happened?"  
  
Fear crept into his eyes, not for himself, she knew, but for her, for J.T., even though she had assured him they were fine. "What – happened?"  
  
Dear God, how did she say this? Okay, start with a broad statement. "There was an – attempt."  
  
"God – "  
  
"No! We're fine, I told you. And you'll be fine."  
  
"I – need – to – " He tried to sit up, but grimaced, his hand coming up to probe at the stiff stitches over his temple. Donna caught at his shoulders, only partially helping him back down onto the bed. His body fell with a hard jar, and he groaned.  
  
"Jed?"  
  
"I'm – all – right," he told her, but the tight features belied his reassurance.  
  
"I – need – to – talk – to – Leo." The words were forced out between gritted teeth, as if he had to squeeze them from his brain through his lips.  
  
Still, she tried not to give in to the alarm that threatened her hope. He hadn't spoken in several days. He had a severe concussion. He had been shot, for God's sake. That trauma had to manifest itself somewhere. Was this it? Surely it was temporary. Surely it would pass. Right?  
  
"He'll be back in a minute," she promised patiently.  
  
"Need – to – know – what – happened." Again, the stilted speech drew a frown to his face, as if he was baffled by his inability to make the words come out faster.  
  
"You've been shot, Mister President," Dr. Egris informed him as he breezed into the room, followed by Leo.  
  
He paused, long enough for Donna to grow anxious, but finally sniffed and said, "Again?" There was ironic humor in his voice.  
  
Even though it would have certainly been strange, Donna almost laughed. Leave it to Jed to find the levity in a dark situation.  
  
Then he sobered and asked, "Any – body – else – "  
  
"No, sir," Leo assured him, glancing back at the doctor.  
  
Jed sighed, relief showing clearly on his body.  
  
"Mister President," Egris asked, taking the small silver instrument from his pocket and shining it quickly in his patient's eyes, "are you having any difficulty thinking?"  
  
Jed frowned warily, not answering. Not a good sign.  
  
Calmly, the young doctor pretended not to notice the hesitancy. Instead, he clarified, "Any problems pulling the right word you want to use?"  
  
This time, the President shook his head and sighed. "No," he told him, and Donna breathed a little easier. But his next statement thrust a hole in her relief. "Well – maybe. Just – can't – seem – to – get – it – out." The gritted teeth, the pain in the eyes completed the story.  
  
Her thoughts returned to the warnings Ellie had given before Jed awoke, to the possible consequences of the injury. "Headache, dizziness, confusion, ringing in the ears, nausea, visual disturbance, loss of balance, memory loss, difficulty concentrating." Nothing about trouble speaking. Why hadn't they mentioned that, too? It didn't seem fair that he would avoid all the pitfalls they listed, only to fall prey to an unexpected one.  
  
"Doctor?" she asked tightly, still holding her husband's hand in hers.  
  
He answered her, but included Jed in his conversation. "Aphasia can occur as a result of a head injury."  
  
"Aphasia?"  
  
"Impaired expression or comprehension of written or spoken language."  
  
Dear God. Speech. How maliciously ironic. His greatest gift was the one taken from him. Her wonderfully articulate husband, oratorical master, weaver of words. This was what he had lost?  
  
"Does he seem to understand what you are saying?" Egris continued.  
  
Donna couldn't believe he was asking this, that this was possible, but she tried to shake off the panic and answer. "Yes. He – he understands."  
  
"I'm – right – here," Jed protested with such a little-boy expression that she almost smiled despite the disturbing suggestion the doctor was making.  
  
Egris turned to him instantly. "I'm sorry, Mister President. Let me ask you, then. Are you having trouble finding the word you want to use?"  
  
She could tell he didn't want to respond, didn't want his acknowledgement to give credence to such a development. But after a moment, he pressed his lips together and nodded.  
  
Her heart ached for him. Language, the spoken word, was so much a part of who Josiah Bartlet was. How could he be the same man without his ability to express himself so skillfully?  
  
"Will it get better?" she asked. Please say yes.  
  
The doctor shifted slightly and sighed. "I wish I could say definitely, but the brain is a complicated organ." He looked directly at the President again. "Sir, your speech skills may come back quickly, or over time – "  
  
"Or not at all?" Donna asked. They had to know, however painful it was. Jed needed to know.  
  
"Or not at all," he admitted. "I'm sorry. I will say it is early to be making long-term judgments. Your body is still trying to get past the trauma of the injury. It can't devote too much energy to full healing yet. We'll need to run some tests, of course. And then we'll probably want to get you going on therapy, but we'll let you rest a while before we start."  
  
No one spoke for a moment as he allowed them to absorb this new complication. Finally, he touched Donna's elbow and asked, "Can I get you anything?"  
  
"No," she said. "Thank you, Doctor." She just wanted him to leave, just wanted to be alone with her husband.  
  
But as Egris left, Leo eased into the slot beside him. "Hey," he said, voice working hard to be light. "Well, the good news is that this time they were actually aiming at you."  
  
Jed tried to laugh, didn't carry it off convincingly. "Lucky – me."  
  
Lucky him, all right, Donna reflected ruefully.  
  
"Glad – it – was – lousy – shot," Jed decided, holding his hand over his eye.  
  
"Not necessarily, sir." This new voice interrupted them and all three looked toward the door as Ron Butterfield entered, also sporting a change of clothes.  
  
Leo took it upon himself to respond. Donna didn't know if it was to save Jed the embarrassment of speaking or just because he wanted to know. "Are you saying that the President wasn't lucky this was a lousy shot?"  
  
"No, sir. I'm saying this wasn't a lousy shot."  
  
They let this settle over them before Leo shook his head and asked, "Well, if you don't consider the fact that the President could have been hit right between the eyes – "  
  
Donna flinched at that visual.  
  
"That's exactly what I'm saying, Leo."  
  
She watched Jed close his eyes as if he needed a little less stimulation to concentrate. Not caring that Ron would comprehend his problem, he managed, "Gonna – use –excuse – I've – been –- sh–shot – in – the – head – to – ask – you – to – explain."  
  
The quick double take by Ron was masked almost immediately, but Donna had seen it. So, she figured, had Jed.  
  
"As excuses go," Leo allowed, trying to keep things light still, "it's not bad."  
  
Jed smiled, but Ron's next statement turned the conversation serious again.  
  
His composure recovered, the agent told them, "The gun used was a 40-year- old M1D, accurate to about 500 yards, but not so much after that. We figure the gunman was at least 700 yards away."  
  
"That – means – "Jed prompted.  
  
"That means if she had been 200 yards closer, or if she had had a newer sniper rifle – well, you might be lying in the Rotunda instead of here, Mister President."  
  
The thought was sobering, and they all remained silent for a moment.  
  
"She?" Jed asked.  
  
Donna glanced toward Leo and Ron. They gave her silent agreement to fill her husband in on events.  
  
"Mikki Chul, Josh's assistant."  
  
Jed frowned at her. "She – "  
  
"She shot you."  
  
"She – shot – "  
  
"Tried to shoot you again last night."  
  
His hand went to his head and he grimaced, not from pain, she realized, but from the sheer shock of her words. She let him digest that information before she continued.  
  
"Gino – Gino stepped in front of you."  
  
Now he looked up, jaw slack. "Gino?"  
  
She laughed. "Yeah."  
  
"Is – he – "  
  
"He's all right. Was hit in the shoulder, but he'll be fine."  
  
"God," Jed breathed, glancing toward his arm and holding it up as if he had just noticed the heavy bandages. "What – "  
  
She winced at having to tell him the IVs had been ripped out of his arm when Gino fell across him, but gave him all the gruesome details, knowing she would have to eventually anyway. When she finished, he stared at her in amazement.  
  
"Where?" he wanted to know.  
  
"Down the hall."  
  
"I – want – to – see – him."  
  
Leo stepped closer. "He'll be able to visit later, Mister President. He's still recovering from surgery."  
  
But Jed shook his head vehemently. "No. Now."  
  
She locked eyes with the Jed's oldest friend and knew they were both wondering how they were going to get Jed to Gino's room, because it was already apparent he was going. But before they could even begin a plan, a knock at the door interrupted them.  
  
Thank goodness. Maybe her stubborn husband would at least wait until they were sure he could even stand by himself.  
  
"Come," Leo called, probably grateful himself for the distraction.  
  
Toby Zeigler stuck his head inside, his usually dour expression somehow lighter at the sight of a conscious President. "Mister President?" he greeted.  
  
"Toby," Jed acknowledged, another confirmation of his unaffected memory.  
  
Stepping fully into the room, the communications director smiled, that quick smile that faded fast before it cracked his face too much. "It's good to see you awake, sir," he said. "We were pretty worried."  
  
"The President's doing much better, Toby," Leo intercepted, and Donna knew he was trying to keep Jed from talking. She wasn't sure she agreed with him. "You can tell C.J. to let the press know he's fully conscious and recovering."  
  
"That's good news," Toby said. "Very good news."  
  
"Thanks." Jed was restricting himself to single words. For Toby? Or for himself?  
  
The younger man shuffled his feet a moment, then added hesitantly, "I know it's not really time, but I thought maybe since the President is feeling better, we could go over the last draft of the State of the Union speech."  
  
The shock of that simple statement flew across her face and she figured Leo's expression mirrored hers in its stunned horror. The State of the Union? The State of the Union? How had they forgotten about the State of the Union?  
  
Toby frowned, not sure about the cause of the reaction. "Well, not now, of course," he backtracked quickly, "but maybe soon."  
  
Donna looked at Leo, then at Jed.  
  
Still not receiving any verbal acknowledgement of his statement, Toby continued with the kicker. "'Cause, you know, it IS next week."  
  
Oh hell. 


	13. The State of the President

POV: Donna Spoilers: None Rating: R Disclaimer: Jed and Donna are not my creation, sorry to say.  
  
A Dagger Unseen – Chapter Thirteen A West Wing Story  
  
by MAHC  
  
Next week.  
  
The State of the Union was next week.  
  
Donna dragged her stunned gaze away from Toby's uncertain one to rest on her husband, to take in the swelling around his eyes, the slice of stitches three inches from his brow to past his ear, the streaks of green and purple bruising down the side of his face.  
  
Next week?  
  
No. Not even next month.  
  
No one spoke for at least a minute after the innocent declaration, so long that the communications director finally twisted his mouth and asked, "What?"  
  
Donna looked at Leo.  
  
Leo looked at her, then at Jed, before turning back to Toby. "Uh, we might need to postpone the State of the Union."  
  
Lips pursed, the speech writer let his eyes shift among the other three people. The silence grew until he nodded and said, "I understand that the President needs to recover. I just thought it would make a strong statement for him to speak to the country as soon as possible." He paused, then added quickly, "IF he's able, of course."  
  
"We need to postpone," Leo repeated firmly, not looking at the President.  
  
Donna chanced a glimpse toward her husband and the ache in his eyes pricked an ache in her own heart. This was torture for him.  
  
She saw a twinge twist Toby's lips. "You know I would never suggest anything that would endanger the President's health, but, due respect, Leo, if the President is able to stand and be reasonably articulate, we need to do this on time. It's important to the country, maybe even to the world, to show that he is in power, that he is in control."  
  
Reasonably articulate. Easier said than done.  
  
"No," Leo said, his voice moving from firm to final.  
  
"I don't – "The communications director cocked his jaw for a moment, then sniffed. "Can you tell me why?"  
  
"The President is recovering from a serious injury as a result of an assassination attempt. I think the American public will cut him a little slack in this situation." Leo's grasp of sarcasm was as good as Jed's.  
  
Donna looked at her husband again. Throughout the conversation, the topic of discussion had bowed his head, one hand pressed over the temple wound. She wondered what was going through his mind, hoped his thought processes worked more smoothly than his speech. His eyes were closed, and she was beginning to think he had tuned them all out. Then he spoke.  
  
"No." His eyes came up, harder and sharper than they had been since he woke. His jaw jutted out defiantly. His body straightened in the bed. Disheveled, swollen, unshaven, and bandaged, Josiah Bartlet could still manage to look imposing.  
  
"Sir?" Leo asked, warning cutting through his tone.  
  
But the President ignored it. "No."  
  
She saw that Toby sensed an ally. He slid in eagerly, ignoring Leo's glare. "Perhaps, sir, I could just let you see a draft, and – "  
  
Jed nodded once. "Yes."  
  
With a quick glance at the Chief of Staff, Toby continued. "This afternoon, I could bring it in – "  
  
"No." This was Leo now, with an imposing presence of his own. "We'll postpone."  
  
Donna watched the uncertainty on the younger man's face as he suddenly realized he was the catalyst for a supreme battle of wills. And between Leo McGarry and Jed Bartlet, he wouldn't take either odds.  
  
After only a few seconds, the President pushed forward slightly. With a firm tone, and a direct address to Leo, he said, "No." Another shift drew a grimace to his face, which the others saw before he could wipe it off. Nevertheless, he added, "We'll – do – this."  
  
The words were stilted, but not enough to make his impairment immediately clear. Still, Donna saw the frown tickle its way across Toby's face.  
  
Leo cut his eyes to the third man and watched him closely.  
  
With only a slight hesitation, Toby asked, "Sir?"  
  
"We – will – do – the – sp-speech – on – time," Jed declared, the effort bringing beads of sweat to his forehead.  
  
This time there was no missing the shocking delivery. Toby stared at the President, his face giving every indication of a man who had just been kicked in the stomach. Almost inaudibly, he murmured, "Oh my God."  
  
"We'll postpone," Leo repeated in a voice that showed he didn't expect a protest anymore.  
  
And he didn't get one – at least not from Toby. Jed, however –  
  
"No. T-Toby's – right," the President managed. "I – n-need to – look – st- strong."  
  
Yeah, you look like Hercules right now, Donna thought with conflicting irritation and compassion.  
  
Donna heard another "Oh my God" from the writer before he cleared his throat and said, "Mister President, I didn't realize – I mean, I think Leo's right, sir. Let's postpone for a few weeks, until – until – "  
  
That dark frown shadowed her husband's face. Donna had seen it before, knew it preceded an unbending back and steel will. Jed had made up his mind, nevermind if the idea was ludicrous.  
  
"I – can – do – this," he insisted, with as much presidential assertiveness as his body would allow him. "I – need – to – do – this."  
  
Dear God, he was serious. He really wanted to stand before the world and deliver the most important speech of the year in a week's time when he couldn't say his name in one breath, when he hadn't even made the first attempt to place his feet on the floor and stand for a minute, much less an hour.  
  
"Jed," she tried, hoping her softer approach would have more influence.  
  
But she saw no weakening of his decision. "I – have – to," he insisted, and she knew he meant for more than just the nation's benefit.  
  
Toby blew out a breath and spoke up, his history of candor with the President serving him when no one stopped him. "Mister President, you must know that this speech is not going to be about the State of the Union."  
  
He paused, let them all wait a beat. "It will be about the State of the President."  
  
Donna flinched. He was right. Everyone would be scrutinizing him, looking at the vivid scar that sliced across his temple, noting the tenderness with which he treated his torn left arm, searching for any minute signal of weakness, of confusion, of lingering effects. At best, they would see a determined, recovering President who tried not to give in to his injuries. At worst, they would hear the stammerings of a brain-damaged victim.  
  
Leo was right. They had to postpone. No doubt about it.  
  
***  
  
"The President is recovering nicely and plans are still on schedule for him to deliver the State of the Union speech three days from now."  
  
Donna sighed as she listened to C.J.'s casual announcement, amazed as always with the press secretary's poker face. Three days from now. She knew as well as any of them that the President had a long way to go if he was going to pull off the miracle he had committed himself to, despite the tedious sessions he endured with the speech therapist. If anything, he left those more frustrated than ever.  
  
What had he been thinking to profess the ability to be ready in a week? What had they been thinking to let him convince them of it? But he was convincing, had persuaded them all against their better judgment – against the painfully obvious – that he could do it.  
  
Leo wanted to postpone. C.J. wanted to postpone. Josh advised postponement. Even Doctor Egris suggested it might be better to wait, although he assured them the appearance would not endanger the President's physical health.  
  
But Jed Bartlet did not want to postpone.  
  
So, since his return from the hospital, he and Toby had sat for hours at a time in the Residence study, writing and practicing the final draft. They had come up with a type of verbal shorthand, the President conveying in an efficiency of words what he wanted, Toby converting that to more eloquent prose. Even after Toby left, Jed forced himself to focus on one paragraph at a time, to push the letters past his lips. But the delivery was still stilted, still achingly slow, still completely un-Bartlet.  
  
Donna had listened to his deliberate struggles, yearned to be able to help, to wave some magic wand and restore the eloquence, the ease to his words. But she couldn't. She couldn't make the speech for him. It would be his ideas, his words, his voice.  
  
As C.J. wound up the conference, Donna cocked an ear toward the closed door of Jed's study. He and Toby had been working since daybreak, just the two of them. Occasionally she heard their voices, Toby's strident, persuasive, Jed's warmer, slower, but no less determined. Mostly, however, and uncharacteristically, things remained quiet between them.  
  
The clock chimed the ¾ hour dutifully, and she looked up, realizing she had lost track of time. Dear Lord, it was almost noon and Jed had not even had breakfast yet. Enough was enough. She could be stubborn, too. Putting away the briefings she had only been ignoring, she eased the door open quietly, not wanting just to burst in. Subtly had its uses.  
  
Jed stood at the window, back to the door, hand pressed to his head. In pain? In frustration? In thought? She couldn't tell. Toby sat in a chair. No pen, no paper. Just listening, filing the President's verbal ideas away in that quirky brain of his.  
  
"Through – out the – twentieth – century --," Jed managed, his speech still labored, "s-small – groups – of – m – m – "  
  
"Men," Toby supplied, then blanched when he saw the President's sharp glare.  
  
"Men," Jed ground out. "S-seized – control – of – g-great – nations, b- built – armies – and – arsenals – " He stopped, taking a breath, rubbing his right hand gingerly over his left forearm.  
  
Frustration crackled around him, and even though she couldn't see his face, the tense set of his shoulders broadcast his agitation.  
  
"Let's take a break, Mister President," Toby suggested, his eye catching Donna's.  
  
Ignoring him, Jed lifted the papers again, picking up where he had stopped. "– and – set – out – to – dom-dominate – the weak – and – intim—idate – the world."  
  
At this pace, the State of the Union would rival the Oscars for airing length. He was trying. Dear God, he was trying. The dampness of his shirt down the middle of his back showed that. But if he tried to go into the House Chamber and inspire anyone, he would fail resoundingly.  
  
Surely she wasn't the only one who saw that. From the shadow of despair on Toby's face, she could tell her opinion wasn't unique.  
  
"Sir," the writer offered again, "let's take a break. Maybe we can pick up later today."  
  
"No." Stubborn.  
  
"But, Mister President – "  
  
"No!" This time the answer was accompanied by a startling slap against the desk. "We – don't – have – time," Jed reminded him.  
  
"Due, respect, sir, but we don't have time to run you into the ground. We've been at this since dawn."  
  
They stared at each other now, hard will up against hard will.  
  
"I'll come back later, Mister President," Toby said finally, and Donna heard the entreaty in his voice. Please don't argue, sir.  
  
Silently, Jed turned away.  
  
So Toby left him, staring at the window. As he stepped past her into the hall, he leaned in close and said, "He did better this morning. He's tired now."  
  
Donna tried to smile, but she couldn't. Toby in a comforting mode was just too much to deal with. Instead, she nodded in thanks. With an awkward pat on her shoulder, he left her to deal with a stubborn husband who needed someone to force him into a much-needed break from the intensity of his efforts. And she was just the wife to do it.  
  
But as she entered the room, she heard him groan, a garbled snarl that cracked the air and sent a surge of adrenaline into her chest. She stared, slack-jawed, as he ripped the speech into shreds that fluttered from his clutching fists like twisted ticker tape. He sank to his knees, hands in his hair, almost incoherent strings of mumbled phrases spilling from his lips.  
  
With a jolt, she realized he was still reciting the speech, or trying to, anyway. But the words fought him, rebelled against the rhythm he grabbed at, slapped away the meter and pitch he was so accustomed to having at his slightest command. He couldn't control his own voice, his own words.  
  
She froze, horrified, wanting to soothe him, yearning to comfort him, to assure him that it didn't matter to her if he couldn't speak at all. But she hesitated until she heard the startling muffled sounds. Looking closer at the broad back, she realized that his shoulders shook in quiet sobs. Dear God. He was crying. She had never really seen him cry before. Not even when Abbey died, although she had to assume he must have expressed his deep grief privately. The fear, the pain, the frustration. Some of it – all of it – had finally hit him, had torn away his carefully placed shielding, his measured confidence, and pierced the soft underbelly of his protective armor.  
  
"Damn – it!" he muttered, catching his breath and sitting back on his heels.  
  
Heartbroken, she couldn't hold back any longer and fell to her knees beside him, catching his shoulders in her hands, pressing her body against his side. He jerked away at the unexpected touch, his lungs fighting to gain control of the gasps.  
  
"God – Donna!" he spat, falling against the desk and almost upsetting a teetering lamp as he turned away from her, out of her grasp. "No – "  
  
"Jed, it's okay." She tried to draw him back to her, but he wrenched free and struggled to his feet, sucking in a sharp breath when he knocked the injured arm against the edge of the desk.  
  
"Jed?"  
  
"Go – away," he repeated, softer this time, pleading, voice breaking, still not meeting her gaze. "Please."  
  
She realized that this was an intensely private moment. He had thought he was alone, and she knew the most devastating thing for him would be to see her there staring at him, pity in her eyes. But she couldn't leave him. Not now.  
  
So she wiped the pity away and touched him again, hands closing once more around his shoulders. "No," she whispered in the voice she used to comfort J.T. when he was at his most agitated. "I'm not going away, Josiah Bartlet. I'm never going away."  
  
As if her declaration freed him from any pretense, he collapsed onto the floor, legs crossed Indian-style, head in his hands, tears streaming down his face. Fighting her own sobs, she held him, whispered to him, stroked his face, his back. He rocked back and forth, leaning against her body, letting her brush through his hair, like a mother with a child.  
  
Finally, he slowed, allowing himself to rest in the warmth of her embrace, until he took a deep, shuddering breath and raised his head.  
  
"I – can't – do it," he admitted, his tone incredulous.  
  
Donna clenched her jaw. She wondered if those words had ever come from Jed Bartlet's lips, wondered if he ever really considered that he couldn't do something.  
  
"It's okay," she assured him. "You don't have to."  
  
"I do," he insisted, running a hand through the thatch of hair across his eyes. "I – need to."  
  
"Your body's not ready. It's not an admittance of weakness. It's just too soon." But even as she said that, she knew he wasn't letting himself believe it.  
  
"I couldn't even – get one – sentence out."  
  
"You're tired," she reminded him, rising to her knees so she could massage the tight muscles of his shoulders. "Rest and try later."  
  
"Leo's right. We – should have – postponed."  
  
"Maybe," she conceded. "You still can." She felt the tiniest bit of give beneath her fingers.  
  
Her hand rose as he sighed. "But, Toby's – right – too. World reaction – rests on – how we – handle this. If I – am – obviously not – destroyed, they lose – credibility. They lose – influence."  
  
True enough, but she felt obligated to remind him of another consequence. "If you don't come across as completely strong and sound, if you are – damaged – they could claim victory."  
  
His head arched back, letting her firm touch ease away some of the agitation. "Whoever – they are."  
  
"I thought the FBI had tagged North Korea."  
  
Jed grunted, almost a laugh. "Not officially. Without – irre-futable evidence, we – can't very well – accuse a sovereign – country of plotting to as-sassinate the – President of the United States."  
  
His words, she suddenly realized, were coming just the tiniest bit faster, as if the emotional release had loosened the strangle his brain held on them. "Jed?"  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
"What does it feel like when you try to speak, when you try to say something and can't?"  
  
He winced a little, maybe not wanting to think too much about it, but answered her anyway. "I just can't – seem – to make my mouth work – like I – want it to."  
  
So simple a description. Too bad the solution wasn't as easy.  
  
But she smiled and leaned over to kiss him, initially just in comfort, but almost immediately letting the first chaste touch grow into a bolder stroke of her lips on his.  
  
"I dunno," she told him when she pulled back. "It works like I want it to."  
  
He grinned, the first real grin she had seen since he woke up in the hospital. "Yeah?"  
  
"Oh, yeah." Her fingers traced the curve of his mouth.  
  
"I think I – need more – therapy." The message was thrilling, but perhaps even more was the fact that he delivered it with several words strung together, at a smoother pace. She wondered if he had even noticed.  
  
She leaned in again, concentrating on taking his breath as she sucked on his lower lip, then ran her tongue over the reddened flesh.  
  
He swallowed. "Uh, Donna, I'm not – sure we should – "  
  
Her eyes closed, she listened to the speech pattern, noted the definite improvement. With his concentration focused on something else, with him not trying so damned hard, the natural ability had been able to reassert a little more influence. He still didn't realize it.  
  
But her logic told her that was enough. He was still recovering. The doctors had advised him to stick with non-strenuous activities.  
  
Besides, they weren't even in their bedroom. They were on the floor of the President's study.  
  
But she had started something. "Not sure we should what?" she asked coyly, slipping a hand inside his shirt to rub across a nipple.  
  
He sucked in a quick breath at the sensation and closed his eyes. "Um, not sure – we should stop," he decided.  
  
"I'm sure," she told him, and he opened his eyes again, uncertainty clouding them. But she smiled and finished, "I'm sure we shouldn't stop."  
  
"No," he agreed. "Never stop."  
  
Her own concentration on his speech was broken when he slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her close, moving into the pressure, returning her warm caress with a heat of his own. Before she really realized what was happening, his legs had uncrossed, and their bodies had stretched out onto to the floor with more than just their lips touching.  
  
No. Wait.  
  
Some tiny spark of caution flickered at the back of her brain. But she couldn't make herself break away from the deliciousness of his touch, from the hot tingle she got as her hips pressed against his and she felt the hardening ridge pulse beneath his pants.  
  
"Jed," she murmured against his neck, making a feeble attempt to pull back.  
  
He didn't answer. He might not be able to work his mouth right to speak, but he sure as hell was working it right in other ways. She felt the frustration of earlier transform into an energy that throbbed between them, insistent, unyielding, and she began to understand that it didn't really matter now what the doctors had said. He needed this, needed the emotional connection, the physical completion. Maybe he needed the reassurance that there was something he could still do well.  
  
And, indeed, he could.  
  
His hands slipped into her pants and she gasped, her body caught up in the sudden eruption of desire neither had planned. As he pushed the material from her hips, that cautious spark flickered once more, then died. Frantically, she tore at the fastening of his jeans, jerking down the zipper and fumbling inside his boxers to curl her fingers around the thickening shaft.  
  
"Donna," he groaned, arching into her grip.  
  
Deep within her brain, logic and restraint made one last argument for stopping, but disappeared as soon as she got his jeans below his knees and felt him thrusting up hard against her body.  
  
Kicking off her pants and panties, she straddled him. Neither of them could stop now, and she hoped they were not doing irreparable damage somehow, but she figured if his body was not ready, it would not have responded so forcefully, so eagerly.  
  
They were both too far gone to attempt the usual finesse. When she sank onto him, he began moving immediately, unable to hold back even if she needed him to. But she didn't. She was there with him, groaning, and gasping, and grabbing at his shoulders to pull him even harder against her body as he hit each stroke with increasingly frantic thrusts.  
  
Usually, he made sure she was close before he allowed himself to reach the edge, but this time he couldn't control the momentum, and she heard him moan as his body stiffened. The familiar hot sensation burst inside her and threw her into the first pulses of orgasm, as she arched into his continuing climax, her own cries in rhythm with the convulsions that rocked her.  
  
With a final push, he collapsed, arms flung to the side, breath coming in gasps. Her hands shook as she stroked up and down his sides, letting her head rest on his chest. God, that was intense. He lay there, still inside her, his pants still just below his knees. They must make an interesting sight, she thought with a chuckle, then jerked when she remembered that intrusion was not impossible. After all, her brother had been allowed to leave the hospital just the night before, and was sleeping in the Lincoln Bedroom.  
  
She pushed herself up, feeling the accustomed regret as he slid from her. "Jed?"  
  
A grunt was her only answer.  
  
She ran a hand over his cheek. "Jed?"  
  
A louder grunt.  
  
"Jed, I think Gino was looking for you earlier."  
  
He sat up so fast, she hoped he hadn't hurt himself. "Not fair," he protested, but his tone was anything but harsh. In fact, he sounded rather chagrined as lay back again and lifted his hips to tug the boxers and jeans back up.  
  
Leaning back against the desk, he smiled at her, an almost timid smirk, full of apology. "Donna, I – I didn't mean for that to – happen. I'm – I'm sorry."  
  
She smiled, sitting up to run a hand through his scattered hair. "I'm not."  
  
He leaned down and kissed her softly, the fierce need satisfied for the moment. "I guess I'm – in trouble now."  
  
With a satisfied grunt, she stretched out and grabbed her rumpled pants and panties, standing to pull them back on. "With Doctor Egris?" she asked.  
  
He nodded.  
  
She grinned. "He doesn't have to know."  
  
But when he turned his head, the grin disappeared. With the area already swelling again, the stitches showed signs of strain, and a few small beads of red oozed from the wound.  
  
"Jed!" she cried, kneeling beside him, alarmed, guilty. Why had she allowed this? What had she been thinking? But she knew what she had been thinking. She had been thinking that she needed him so much she couldn't think. And now look.  
  
"It's okay, "he assured her, dabbing gingerly at his head, unable to avoid a wince when he touched the tender area.  
  
"It's not. I shouldn't have – I'm sorry, Jed."  
  
Now he grinned. "I'm not." And his lips were on hers again, not quite as desperate, but still passionate, nevertheless.  
  
At first she wasn't sure there had really been a knock at the door, but by the time the slight creak indicated it was opening, it was too late.  
  
"Mister Pres – " The unexpected greeting was choked off as their interloper froze, doorknob still in his grasp.  
  
Oh God!  
  
They both jerked away from each other like teenagers caught on her parent's couch. Ron Butterfield stared at them for a moment, obviously not prepared for the sight of the President and First Lady entwined on the floor of the Chief Executive's study. If he had been five minutes earlier –  
  
She smoothed her hair self-consciously and cut her eyes down to make sure everything was covered. Clothes on. Good. Nothing they could do about the obvious aroma of sex, though. But what the hell. Ron would have to be blind anyway not to realize what he had interrupted – or just missed interrupting, thankfully.  
  
Jed turned toward the agent. Donna winced as she got a good look at the oozing railroad tracks of stitches again.  
  
Three days.  
  
"Ron." The acknowledgement held many messages.  
  
The tall head of the POTUS Detail finally entered, clearing his throat awkwardly. "I'm sorry, sir. Mrs. Bartlet, I apologize for the intrusion. I didn't realize that – "  
  
It was a rare day when Ron Butterfield was unnerved. Donna fought the urge to grin, resisted looking at her husband, because she knew she wouldn't be able to hold a straight face at all then.  
  
"Come in, Ron," Jed invited casually, grabbing the edge of the desk and pulling himself up from the floor, as if the agent had interrupted nothing less innocent than a game of marbles.  
  
"I can come back."  
  
"We're finished," the President said, and winked at Donna when they both saw the flush cross the agent's face. She grinned at the ease of both his words and his body.  
  
But he had taken only a step or two when he paled and swayed, catching himself with a hand on the back of a chair.  
  
Damn. She should have known it wouldn't be that easy.  
  
"Jed?" Donna had his right elbow just as Ron ignored protocol and caught the left.  
  
"I'm – okay," he insisted, pulling away from both of them. "Just stood too –fast."  
  
"Are you sure, Mister President?" Ron asked.  
  
Jed allowed a glare toward his agent. It was out of character for Ron to question a Presidential brush off, even one that didn't fool anyone. But it showed the depth of concern for his boss. Donna loved him for it.  
  
"Yes," Jed hissed, but whether the snap was a result of frustration or pain, she couldn't tell.  
  
Ron straightened and dropped his hands so they no longer reached out to steady his charge. "It's about Mikki Chul."  
  
Jed lifted his chin a little, like he did when he needed to brace himself. "Go."  
  
With a nod, Ron began. "First let me go over the demographic information. Marine Corps records show that she was born in San Francisco in 1972 to an American mother and Korean father. They moved to Los Angeles when she was seven, where the father apparently abandoned the family."  
  
"Didn't you know that already?" Donna wondered. What did this help?  
  
"If you'll bear with me, Mrs. Bartlet," he requested. "There are some new things."  
  
"Go on," Jed ordered, leaning against the chair back now, pointedly discouraging any assistance.  
  
"At eighteen, she finished high school and decided to seek out her father and his family in South Korea, traveling there in July of 1990. She obtained a job with a magazine doing research for about a year, then returned to the U.S. and secured an appointment to the Naval Academy through a Representative from California. After a year and a half, however, her mother's death forced her to drop out. She returned to Korea and disappeared."  
  
Jed frowned. "Disappeared?"  
  
"Yes, sir. For about a year until she enlisted with the Marines in August of 1994. She graduated with honors from Parris Island in November and was sent to rifleman school. Her record in the Corps is spotless. She mustered out in May of 2002."  
  
"And somehow ended up the next year working for Josh," Donna finished. "Interesting, Ron, but not nothing you didn't already know about her. What I want to find out is why she threatened us. Why did she try to – " She swallowed a sudden lump in her throat. "– to kill the President?"  
  
But he didn't say he didn't know. He didn't say because the President is a public figure and practically invites assassination from a wide assortment of lunatics. He didn't say anything she expected him to say.  
  
He simply said, "She didn't."  
  
Jed's head cocked slightly, and he reached up absently to touch the tender wound. "What?"  
  
Not even blinking, Ron said, "Mikki Chul didn't try to kill you, Mister President."  
  
What kind of nonsense was this? "She sure as hell made it look good," Donna snapped.  
  
But Jed had pushed off the chair back now, his eyes narrowed. "What do you – have, Ron?"  
  
"Interpol has a confirmed clipping from the Seoul Sinmun newspaper for January 12, 1994. An obituary."  
  
Dear God. Another murder was connected to this?  
  
They had been waiting for the other shoe to drop. It did. "Mikki Chul was killed January 11, 1994, in a traffic accident in Seoul."  
  
The First Couple stared at Ron for a long moment.  
  
Ironically, it was Jed who found his voice first. "What – are you saying?" he demanded.  
  
The agent softened his voice. "I am saying, Mister President, that Mikki Chul did not shoot you. She couldn't have. She's been dead nine years." 


	14. God is the Only One Who Gets to Kill Peo...

POV: Donna Spoilers: "Take This Sabbath Day;" "Bartlet For America;" "25" Rating: PG-13 Disclaimer: Most of these characters were not created by me.  
  
A Dagger Unseen – Chapter Fourteen A West Wing Story  
  
by MAHC  
  
Mikki Chul had been dead for nine years?  
  
Donna couldn't speak, couldn't even wrap her thoughts around what Ron was saying. Everything they thought, all the conjectures of why she did it, of what had motivated her to threaten the First Family, to shoot the President, shattered with that one statement.  
  
Mikki Chul had been dead for nine years.  
  
"Then who?" Jed wanted to know.  
  
Well, he wasn't the only one. Who the hell was it that pulled that trigger, that took those photos, that crashed that plane, that almost destroyed their lives?  
  
Ron cut his eyes downward for a moment, then looked back up, as if to say, "You're not going to like this." He was right.  
  
"Mister President, we believe a North Korean agent was sent here, using Mikki Chul's identity to infiltrate the military and get into a position to intimidate U.S. policy in North Korea."  
  
Jed turned his head, but did not move his eyes from the agent, a habit of his when he tried to sift through the padded layers of confusion to get to the solid center of information. "North Korea?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"It really is – North Korea?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Are they crazy?"  
  
"I wouldn't know, sir."  
  
"North Korea actively pursued the – the assassination of a sitting American President?"  
  
"It looks possible, sir."  
  
He ran a hand through his hair. "But that had to be planned – I wasn't – even President when – "  
  
"Excuse me, Mister President."  
  
All three occupants turned to see Leo McGarry and another dark-suited man enter. Donna vaguely wondered if they knew what had occurred between the First Couple in that room, then decided she didn't really care.  
  
Leo nodded to her and opened a palm toward the other man. "Mister President, this is Special Agent John Odechek, FBI."  
  
As Jed pushed away from the desk and shook the agent's hand, Donna watched for any signs of weakness, saw that Ron did the same. But the hand was steady, the eyes clear. Still, she saw the alarm in Leo's eyes as he peered more closely at the President.  
  
"Are you all right, sir?"  
  
Jed frowned, then saw where the Chief of Staff's gaze lingered. Touching the fresh blood at the wound, he shrugged off the concern. "I'm fine."  
  
Not looking totally convinced, Leo nevertheless took the hint and switched his attention to Ron Butterfield. "You briefed him?"  
  
"We had just begun," the head of POTUS' detail told him, then turned back to the President. "The plan was obviously not a personal one against you, sir."  
  
"At least not at first," Leo added. "But later, when you insisted the North Korean government give up all nuclear capacity before humanitarian aid could resume, the plan shifted to make it personal."  
  
"I didn't want to compromise," Jed muttered, almost to himself. "Maybe I should have – "  
  
"You didn't want to leave it for the next guy," Leo reminded him gently. "A compromise would only delay this, not fix it."  
  
"Yeah." But doubt flattened his tone.  
  
Leo took the liberty of touching his friend's shoulder and drawing their gazes together. "This person had to have been in place long before you did anything to piss them off."  
  
The pure pain in those blue eyes hurt them all when Jed asked quietly, "Then, why – J.T.? Why Donna?"  
  
She moved beside him, slipping her arm through his, both lending and gaining strength from the contact.  
  
Odechek stepped closer to field the ragged question. "They were weapons, sir, used initially in an attempt to distract you, to take your attention away from the Korean issue."  
  
The President shook his head ruefully and laughed, a sharp, harsh sound. "Worked."  
  
"Not enough," Leo observed, his voice also regretful. "When it became apparent you weren't budging on the nuclear bans, they gave up on that and tried to create a scandal, to humiliate you, to make you lose credibility."  
  
Jed exhaled hard. "Then?"  
  
"Then they got impatient. The scandal didn't work like they had planned. You didn't cave in to the threats. And somehow, the – uh – the photographs have not been published, despite the probability that someone has at least one copy even now."  
  
Oh God. Someone had a copy still? She had almost forgotten about those stark pictures, almost pushed that threat from her mind. But was this humiliation still looming, still out there somewhere waiting to sideswipe them after all they had been through?  
  
Clearing his throat, Ron threw an apologetic glance toward Donna and added, "The – uh – Oval Office – rumors, which were calculated to humiliate and threaten you, didn't create the negative fervor they anticipated."  
  
Yeah, okay. The world knows we had sex in the Oval Office. You can drop it now.  
  
But he didn't. If Donna hadn't been certain she knew Ron better, she would have sworn she saw a fleeting grin cross his lips. "In fact, the suggestion that you and the First Lady had – well, that you and she – Let me just say that the possibility seemed to draw even more favorable impressions for you, sir."  
  
On second thought, she did know him well enough to be relatively sure that it was a grin.  
  
Jed colored and swallowed hard. Donna cast her eyes down. No way she wanted to see the other men's expressions at the moment.  
  
Hastily, Leo jumped to add his conclusion. "So they finally decided the only way to get rid of your policy was to get rid of you."  
  
The room absorbed that synopsis for a long moment.  
  
"Where does – Fahrwell fit in?" Jed asked finally, shifting attention away from their embarrassment.  
  
"A stooge," Odechek surmised. "Only superficially involved. Possibly out of the loop completely until it was too late to get out. Knew Mikki Chul – or whoever was using her identity – from his visit with the North Korean president to photograph the family and staff. She used him to get the pictures, then disposed of him when he realized what was going on."  
  
"Proof?"  
  
"Some. Enough probably to make things very uncomfortable for North Korea."  
  
Keeping her arm tucked almost protectively through Jed's, Donna asked, "What are the chances there will be another attempt?"  
  
Odechek shook his head. "Low. They've played their hand. Anything else would be too dangerous for them, too chancy. If anything were directly connected to the North Korean government, global hell would break loose, and the entire West would cut them off completely. No, they'll cut their losses and run. Or try to play nice, now."  
  
Jed shifted slightly and raised a hand to push back the hair that kept falling over his forehead. Donna almost grinned. The endearing habit always made him look rather boyish. "What about China?"  
  
Leo shrugged. "Probably no comment either way. It would really be their only choice without coming out against North Korea."  
  
"And they won't do that?" Jed wondered, opening his arms in a question. Donna let her grip drop, satisfied that the dizziness had left him.  
  
"Doubtful."  
  
Suddenly, the President, who had remained uncharacteristically low-key so far, slammed a fist on the desk top, grimacing at the impact, but not letting that keep him from his fierce question. "How the hell did an agent – infiltrate the damned – Marine Corps?"  
  
She realized he had used his left hand and knew the impulsive motion had to have hurt. But when she tried to see if he had caused damage, he waved her off and faced the FBI agent, who, to his credit, managed not to flinch in the face of Presidential wrath.  
  
"Apparently, sir," he explained, "the original records for Mikki Chul from Annapolis had been altered with new fingerprints and photographs. And pretty well, too. Fooled the recruiters at Parris Island and the IRS."  
  
"And the FBI?" Jed wanted to know, pain forcing the calm back over him.  
  
"At first, yes, sir," Odechek admitted.  
  
"Do we know who this – really was?"  
  
"Not yet, Mister President. But we are running matches of all known spies and terrorists who may have had links to North Korea."  
  
Donna watched her husband run a hand through his hair again, a sure sign of frustration or fatigue. Or both. "Could she have just been – a hired gun?"  
  
"With the amount of time devoted to this plan, several years apparently, I doubt it. This was a long-term goal," the FBI agent said.  
  
Shifting his stance, Leo placed a hand back on the shoulder of his best friend. "It really didn't start out to be personal. Plans were made to influence presidential decisions while you were still Governor of New Hampshire."  
  
"Well, it damn well GOT personal, didn't it?" Jed snapped.  
  
And suddenly, despite the trauma of the discussion, despite the intensity of the information they were receiving, Donna realized that Jed's words were coming a little faster, a bit smoother. In fact, he had been much more articulate since – since their "conference" on the floor of the study. Certainly she did not credit a simple matter of sex with the improvement. But maybe a combination of the emotional and physical release had relaxed him. It gave more evidence for her theory.  
  
But now wasn't the time to bring that up, so she listened to the dialogue and filed that knowledge away for later.  
  
After a moment's thought, Jed looked up and nodded. "All right. Heighten the alert status at – the DMZ. Get the Joint – Chiefs together." He turned back to Odechek. "Anything else?"  
  
"That's all we have at the moment, sir," the FBI agent said.  
  
"You'll keep us informed?" Leo asked, but it wasn't really a question.  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
With a duet of "Thank you, Mister President," Ron and Odechek left.  
  
In their wake, the room relaxed into silence except for the ubiquitous clock's ticking. Donna wondered why she only noticed it in times of tension. Neither Leo nor Jed had moved. Both men stood facing each other, looking at the floor. Finally, her husband's sigh skimmed the quiet.  
  
"All right," he said, jerking his chin toward Leo. "Let's go."  
  
Lingering by her side for a long moment, he leaned in and kissed her tenderly. "I'll be – I'll be back later."  
  
And who knew what that meant? Later could be minutes, hours, or days. All part of the job, a job, thank God, that was still his, even after the best efforts of Mikki Chul's imposter.  
  
"Okay." She caught him again for another kiss, selfishly happy when he seemed genuinely reluctant to leave her.  
  
But duty called, and it was only another moment before he and Leo were walking out of the residence toward the waiting intrigue of the West Wing.  
  
Two days before the State of the Union, the President had set himself a full agenda after a check-up with Dr. Egris, who had made an appearance at the Residence so his famous patient didn't have to field questions from waiting reporters. The physical progress was good, even though the First Couple had received a mild lecture on the dangers of premature relations.  
  
"I suppose, however, Mister President," Dr. Egris had allowed, "if it didn't kill you already, you're safe to, uh, continue."  
  
Her husband had been almost insufferably proud of himself after that remark. Nevertheless, the doctor cautioned them to take things easy, especially since the head wound had shown some minor strain as a result.  
  
When he left, Jed's impromptu proposal that they take the next hour off to celebrate was postponed with Leo's phone call. Typical.  
  
So as her husband conferred with his Chief of Staff in the Oval Office, the First Lady made a needed visit to her own offices in the East Wing, plowing through briefs and memos placed at the bottom of the piles for several weeks. Until recently, she had simply ignored all but the most pressing items brought to her by her own chief of staff. Now, however, she could at least begin the tedious process of sifting through the documents.  
  
Two hours, and several depleted stacks, later, her body reminded her of the other duty she had: motherhood. The pressing fullness in her breasts gave evidence that she couldn't ignore. J.T. would be fretting to be fed soon.  
  
With a rueful glance at the remaining voluminous layers of papers, she told her staff she would return later and headed toward the residence. But an impulse sent her instead on past that toward the West Wing. Just a quick check, she told herself a little guiltily. She could mask her mother- henning with a visit with Margaret.  
  
Leo's office bustled as usual, but the competent willowy redhead who ran it maintained her usual quirky smirk.  
  
"Hey!" Donna greeted, as casually as possible. Nothing more than a simple visit, right?  
  
Margaret replied dutifully, "Hello, Mrs. Bartlet."  
  
Donna rolled her eyes. "Oh, give me a break," she scolded. "I don't have time for protocol today."  
  
"Okay. What's up?" Easy switch from years of camaraderie.  
  
She loved Margaret. What you saw was what you got.  
  
"Catching up." Lifting a chin toward Leo's door, she asked, "How are things going?"  
  
The hesitation was so slight, she almost didn't notice it. Almost. "Fine," Margaret replied smoothly. "They should be finished in a little while. Would you like to wait in Leo's office until – "  
  
"What?" Donna interrupted.  
  
"What?"  
  
"What's going on?"  
  
"I don't know – "  
  
"This is me, Margaret. I know you, remember? Your 'fine' meant anything but."  
  
At least the other woman had the decency to blush.  
  
"I know you know what's happening in there. What's not so fine? Spill it."  
  
Not seeming too distraught over this order to squeal, Margaret stepped toward Leo's office and confided, "Well, they started in there, but moved to the Oval Office about a half hour ago. Leo hasn't come back out yet."  
  
"Could you hear them?" Might as well just give up any pretense of not wanted to eavesdrop. It was for the good of the President, after all.  
  
"Not at first, but when Leo told me they were leaving his office, he left this door open. Every so often, their voices come through, but I can't really hear what they are saying."  
  
Donna pursed her lips in challenge. She didn't have the time to play the suspense game today.  
  
With a shrug, Leo's assistant admitted, "Okay. The best I can tell they are talking about North Korea and the possible involvement in the – " Margaret stumbled, but Donna shook her discomfort away and she finished. "In the assassination attempt."  
  
No real news there. "How does he sound?" No need explaining who "he" was.  
  
Another hesitation, this time not so slight. "Well – fine, I'm sure. He sounds fine."  
  
There was that suspicious "fine" again. "Margaret, it doesn't do him any good for you not to tell me. I need to know."  
  
Her face blanked, then molded into a visibly sympathetic grimace. "Slow. He still sounds slow and – and unsure about what he's saying. I'm sorry, Donna. I know you want him to – "  
  
"I want him to get better. I want him to be happy." It was true, whether that meant speaking better or not. She didn't really give a damn.  
  
"I know." And this time she heard the sincerity in her friend's voice. "You wanna wait in Leo's office?"  
  
"I didn't really come to see him," she explained. But when Margaret's eyes narrowed, she knew she was not fooling her friend. "But – okay." Besides, Leo's office would at least afford the privacy she couldn't have perched on Charlie's or Debbie Fiderer's desk.  
  
Margaret ushered her into the dark room. Before she left, she turned and smiled. "I'm sure the President will be fine. He has a lot going for him. Intellect. Determination. Courage. Strength."  
  
"Thanks, Margaret," Donna said, returning the smile.  
  
"Hey."  
  
She raised her brow in acknowledgement.  
  
"There's one more thing he has going for him," her friend reminded.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"He has you."  
  
Of all people, perhaps Margaret understood her feelings best. After all, she was the first person, besides the participants themselves, to know that she had slept with Jed. The person who had taken her sample to the obstetrician to test for pregnancy. The person who had assured her – quite accurately – that the blue lingerie she selected for their wedding night would drive her new husband wild. The person who had kept an eye on her during the late, miserable days of pregnancy. The person who had helped care for J.T. when they waited, panicked and uncertain at the hospital after the assassination attempt.  
  
Yes, Margaret understood.  
  
Touched by the warm reassurance, Donna pressed her lips together. "Thanks."  
  
As the door closed behind her, she heard the voices in the next room, intense, pushing, and realized that the door was not completely closed. With only a minor twinge of guilt at eavesdropping, she stepped silently to the connecting hallway and peered through the gap.  
  
Both men stood, Leo in front of the huge Resolute Desk, Jed behind it, hands braced on the solid wood. From the tension of their bodies, she could see that the conversation was serious.  
  
"We can't just come out and accuse North Korea of trying to kill the President of the United States," Leo said.  
  
Jed looked at him. "Why not?"  
  
"Well, because for one they didn't. CIA thinks it's just a faction."  
  
"Working under – the direction – of the government." Her husband's voice was tight again, the words resistant.  
  
"They'll deny it."  
  
"Ya think?"  
  
They both fell silent for a moment. Finally, the President exhaled heavily and straightened, rubbing his head, wincing at the movement. "So – what – do we do?"  
  
Leo sighed. "We take out the faction. Or at least the leader."  
  
Jed's face paled. "Like Shareef," he whispered.  
  
Oh no. Don't go there, Donna prayed, unconsciously clutching at her throat. Please. It still haunted her husband. This act he had sanctioned, this order he had given that almost stole his child from him.  
  
"Sir – "  
  
"My God. I've become the – Godfather of the world. You don't do – what I want – I rub you out."  
  
"This is not just some vendetta, Mister President. They tried to kill you."  
  
"Instead of Don – Corleone, we've got – Don Bartlet," he said, the self- reproach all too clear.  
  
Leo tried to lighten the burden. "Now see, that just doesn't have quite the same effect."  
  
Jed breathed out in a humorless laugh. "So I get him – before – he gets me." The President grew quiet. After a moment, he turned, hand to his head again, and stared out the window. "What a – legacy I'll leave. An eye – for an eye."  
  
"You do what you have to do."  
  
Donna didn't move, didn't dare even shift as she waited for Jed's answer, waited to see which impossible choice her husband made. The second hand of the clock kept a steady rhythm, loud and jarring in the silence.  
  
Finally, still staring out the window, he said softly, "No."  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"No. We're not – going to do it."  
  
"Mister President – "  
  
Now he turned, and the rueful smile on his face lingered barely long enough to let them know it had been there at all. "'Vengeance – is mine, saith the Lord.' Someone reminded me once – that means 'God is the only one – who gets to kill people.' I forgot that. I won't again."  
  
After a moment, Leo nodded his acceptance. "Yes, sir. I understand, Mister President."  
  
And Donna knew he did, more than he let on. The Shareef decision had hurt Leo, too, because it hurt Jed so much. And she knew Leo blamed himself for Zoey's abduction, even as Jed had taken the burden on his own shoulders. She shuddered as she remembered those terrible days, watching the First Family face a nightmare.  
  
"Toby's waiting to go over the speech again," Leo reminded as he stepped to the outer office door.  
  
"Yeah." She saw the dread on her husband's face at that prospect, heard the stilted speech, the halting words, and wished she could rescue him. Despite the progress he had made, despite the few relaxed moments in which he was able to let go a little, his mind still fought him, still made him wrestle to express himself like Jed Bartlet had always been able to express himself.  
  
She wondered what would happen if he never regained control over his speech, if he was unable to command the oratorical skills that had made him such a powerful speaker. She could not imagine him losing that ability forever. It was such a part of him, such an intricate component of his personality. How would such a loss change him?  
  
No, she couldn't believe that he would never again hold dominion over the spoken word. As she watched the speech writer shuffle in, his face almost cracking with the forced smile, she prayed that all the frustration would not be in vain.  
  
Then she left without ever having spoken to Jed. That night she would hold him in her arms, feel his body against hers, comfort him from the pressures of the day, allow him to communicate without any words at all.  
  
But until then, he belonged to Toby. She had a feeling he would need that comfort at the end of the day.  
  
Two nights later on the eve of the State of the Union, Jed stumbled in from the Oval Office well past dark, despite the fact that his doctors warned him to keep the days short and light. Short and light to him meant dawn to dusk instead of pre-dawn to midnight. Donna winced at the fatigue in his eyes.  
  
"Hey," she greeted cautiously, communicating her mild scolding through the tone instead of with harsh words. He knew how she felt about the long hours. Not that it changed anything.  
  
"Hey," he returned, trying to force a little energy into his voice. It didn't work.  
  
He stripped off the Notre Dame sweatshirt, taking time to ease it past the wound, then tossed it in the general direction of the bathroom.  
  
"You okay?" That was a risky move. He never liked being asked, but she wanted to know.  
  
"Yeah." Quick answer. That meant, "Don't ask."  
  
"How's the speech?"  
  
"Fine." Another one-word response. That meant, "It sucks."  
  
Kicking off his shoes, he almost stumbled over a set of baby stacking rings on the floor, catching himself with a hand on the bed post. "Damn – it!"  
  
Now she was up, both to check on him and to make sure he hadn't roused J.T. It had taken her a good 45 minutes to rock their son to sleep.  
  
At her reproachful expression, his face softened and he lowered his eyes. "I'm – sorry – Donna. I'm just – I'm sorry."  
  
The words came roughly, jerking out of his mouth. She tried not to show her alarm. Just that afternoon he had spoken so much better. And now –  
  
"Why don't you take a hot shower?" she suggested. "Remember to cover your arm." The stitches in his head had come out just that morning, so he was free to duck under the spray now. She knew he had been looking forward to it.  
  
"Donna, I'm – really sorry," he repeated. "I – shouldn't have – "  
  
"It's okay. I'll just check on J.T. You take your shower."  
  
Nodding, he dragged into the bathroom as she slipped quietly next door to J.T.'s crib. Sure enough, the infant's eyes caught her movement immediately and he began kicking in excitement.  
  
Well, there went 45 minutes for nothing. Clicking her tongue teasingly at him, she lifted him from the bed and cradled him against her shoulder. At least Jed would be able to spend some time with his son, if he could keep his eyes open long enough.  
  
A few minutes later, the water stopped and he emerged from the bathroom, hair still wet, towel clutched loosely around his waist. Fatigue slumped his shoulders, but as soon as he saw J.T. on the pallet she had made, his eyes lit.  
  
"Hey, Big Man!" he greeted.  
  
At the distinctive sound of his father's voice, the baby gurgled and kicked.  
  
"You gonna – visit with – your old man – awhile?"  
  
"That's what he told me," Donna smiled.  
  
"Okay. Let Daddy – put on some – clothes."  
  
She ran a hand down his bare chest, brushing her fingers through the damp hair. "Don't feel like you have to," she suggested, even though she knew with J.T. awake the chances were slim that anything would be happening between them that night.  
  
Jed caught her hand and raised it to his lips, kissing the fingertips gently and drawing her against him. She let the other hand drop between them. The towel was woefully insufficient to conceal his reaction to her touch.  
  
"Is that a Minuteman Missile in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?" she purred.  
  
He looked hurt. "Minuteman?"  
  
She grinned, realizing what she had said. "What, then?"  
  
"A Peacekeeper," he decided.  
  
"What's the difference?"  
  
"Much larger," he assured her.  
  
"Need a silo?" Oh, that was bad, but then bad jokes had always been her forte.  
  
He winced and grinned at that same time, then leaned forward to flick his tongue against her lips. She pressed into him harder, rubbing the silk of her gown on his bare skin. Peacekeeper, indeed.  
  
A hand went around the back of her neck, held her against him, as another hand slid down her body, trailing fire as it danced across her flesh. Her blood pumped with increasing urgency, surging up to the pit of her belly, pounding in rhythm with his own firm pulses. The towel had dropped, leaving him completely and deliciously open to her caresses.  
  
"You ready for launch?" she asked at his ear, hoping he didn't mind the corny teasing.  
  
His tongue left a hot, slick path from her neck to her breasts. "Ma'am, yes ma'am."  
  
"Then let me say you are go for – "  
  
They say that you never stop reacting to a baby's cry once your nervous system has been fused to your own child's voice. Donna didn't know if that was true, but she did know that her body moved instantly with the jarring screech of an irritated and ignored J.T.  
  
Both parents jerked apart, as was certainly the intention of their offspring. With a sigh, she gave Jed a final squeeze before pulling away. His frustrated grunt made his feelings clear.  
  
"We were goin' for – Defcon Three, there, son," he groaned to J.T. "You are interfering with a mission of national importance."  
  
With a grin, she stripped the gown over her head and tossed across his face and shoulders. "If you're patient," she promised, "we might even make it to Defcon Two."  
  
"I'm the tortoise in – 'The Tortoise and the Hare.' I'm Job. I'm – "  
  
"I'm going to take a shower," Donna announced. "If J.T.'s asleep when I finish – "  
  
And she entered the bathroom to the rumbling strains of "Rockabye Baby."  
  
When she returned, feeling fresh and frustratingly sexy, she was greeted by her husband and son lying together on the floor. Jed had slipped on a pair of pajama bottoms and now propped his head on one hand as he swung a small, soft soccer ball just out of the grasp of his son with the other. J.T. followed its path with keen eyes and kicked his chubby legs in glee or frustration, she wasn't sure which.  
  
The older Bartlet chuckled and lowered the prize so that the younger one could reach for it, his tiny fingers curling and uncurling against the fuzzy material. The sight drew a quick tightness to her throat, and she fought it back, not wanting to bring back her fears of the past to this pleasant scene. Jed didn't need her angst, didn't need anything except for her total love and commitment.  
  
"Hey, John Thomas," he whispered, unaware he had more than his son as an audience. "I love you. Never doubt – that your dad loves you."  
  
Aware only of the love and security he felt from his father's voice, the baby cooed in contentment. Donna bit her lip to keep from losing it right there.  
  
But Jed wasn't finished. "And I'll – always be proud of you. Man, you don't have to be the – best athlete or the – smartest guy at school."  
  
She wondered if these things had been expected of him so many years ago, if his own father had withheld love and pride from some erroneous belief that Jed Bartlet had not achieved what John Bartlet expected. She couldn't imagine how he could not have been proud of his remarkable son.  
  
Sitting up now and lifting the infant to his chest, Jed murmured, "You just be the best John Thomas Bartlet you can be."  
  
Well, damn it.  
  
Holding back the tears long enough to retreat into the bathroom, Donna closed the door and leaned against it, letting herself react to the poignant scene. She ached for the little boy that her husband had been. The little boy who fought to be good enough for his father. The little boy whose brilliance was never acknowledged until adulthood, whose amazing charm and wit was never encouraged inside his own family. The little boy who had grown into the most remarkable man she had ever known. The man who now promised his own son the unconditional love he never had.  
  
Under control again, she eased back into the room, wiped her eyes and watched the scene a little longer, listening to Jed's soft conversation, smiling at the smoothness of his words, in such contrast to the stiffness earlier. Smiling, she curled up behind him, resting her chin on his shoulder, and breathed in the tender moment, wishing it could last forever, wishing time would freeze for them, just for a little while.  
  
But it wouldn't. He was about to take one of the biggest risks of his life by going before an entire nation and most of the world in a condition that was considerably less than his best. Maybe they would understand. Maybe they would see it as brave, as honest. But maybe they would hear the slow speech and associate that with slow thinking, with questions about his judgment, his decision-making.  
  
But that was twenty-four hours away. For tonight, he just needed to be a husband and father.  
  
And even though the mission was scrubbed and they never even reached Defcon Four, they were both more than content with the results: asleep in each other's arms in the big bed, their precious child harbored between them. 


	15. Mister Speaker, the President of the Uni...

POV: Donna Spoilers: "Bartlet for America" Rating: PG-13/R Disclaimer: These characters are not mine. AS created them and now I suppose JW controls them, but I'm exercising my own little bit of control here.  
  
A Dagger Unseen – Chapter Fifteen A West Wing Story  
  
by MAHC  
  
The morning of the State of the Union dawned cold and clear. Brilliant sunlight gleamed off the Capitol dome like a beacon drawing all of Washington to its chamber. And all of Washington was there – or at least it seemed that way. Hotel rooms were at a premium. Restaurant waits topped two hours. The world had descended on the seat of government, hungry for the expected pomp.  
  
But this time the anticipation of the annual address, required by the Constitution, but generally disregarded by the majority of the American public, had become much more than just an analysis of the country. This time it was a public diagnosis of the condition of the President of the United States. Toby was right. Josiah Bartlet's performance that evening would impact the influence of their Administration for the rest of his term. Would the public see a strong leader who fought the evils of terror and won? Or would they see a very human man who could not overcome the effects of that terror, who no longer possessed the confidence or even the ability to make the hard decisions, to guide the most powerful nation in the world?  
  
As Donna listened to the uneasy discussions in the sitting area of their bedroom, she really had no idea which it would be. The final practices for the speech had continued, usually with only Toby on hand to critique. She tried to stay away, to allow him the dignity of not having an audience witness his frustrations, but if Jed's moods when they were over were any indication, things weren't going well.  
  
"Just take it slowly, Mister President," Toby reminded, his voice even more edgy than usual. "It will seem more natural then."  
  
One hour before the State of the Union and the tension in the room almost crackled. The anxieties of the speech writer, the Chief of Staff, and the President whipped together like the crossed beams in Ghostbusters, and created almost as much violent energy.  
  
"I – know," Jed protested again. "I – know." He paced in front of the window, his mind apparently locked only on the speech. All the painstaking work of the past week now coming down to one moment. One moment that could determine the course of events both on a national and international scale.  
  
Always the supporter, Leo weighed in, his attempt to comfort woefully inadequate to the tight apprehension. "It'll be fine. Just do your best."  
  
"Easier said – than done," the President reminded them, not breaking his pattern.  
  
"You look good," the Chief of Staff offered. "Scar's not too bad since the stitches are out."  
  
Jed didn't respond.  
  
"Just stay with the script, sir. If you have trouble, the teleprompter will wait on you."  
  
Now the man who was about to deliver not only his agenda for the year, but perhaps more importantly the response of his country to a brutal attack, stopped walking and turned to the small group. "You were – right," he admitted. "I'm – sorry I didn't – listen."  
  
Leo frowned. "What do you mean, Mister President?"  
  
The shoulders slumped in defeat. "We – should have – postponed."  
  
No, Donna thought. Don't do this. Don't start doubting yourself now. But it was too late. She saw the realization wash over Toby's face, too, as he understood the damage his own concerns had caused.  
  
"No, sir," he said quickly. "No, it'll be all right." That smirk twisted his lips. "As usual, I've created a foolproof masterpiece, if only political hacks wouldn't butcher it with their improvs."  
  
The crack broke a little of the tension, and Jed allowed them a smile. "No – promises."  
  
"Mister President?" Charlie's head poked into the room. "Whenever you're ready."  
  
Donna watched as Leo stepped in front of his old friend. No words were exchanged, but the depth of communication between the two needed no verbalization.  
  
"Okay. Let's do this," the Chief of Staff said, extending his arm toward the door in invitation.  
  
She looked at Jed, at the hard lines, the clenched jaw and knew she couldn't let him go like that. Maybe a quick shoulder rub, or just some reassuring words.  
  
"Uh, Leo, Toby, could you excuse us for a few minutes?" Donna asked, fighting to keep her voice and expression completely innocent.  
  
All three men looked at her quizzically.  
  
"Just a few minutes," she repeated, catching Leo's eye and trying to convey the importance of her request.  
  
His chin lifted slightly in comprehension, one brow arched. "Certainly," Leo agreed.  
  
"We are due at the Capitol – "Toby began, but Leo tugged on his sleeve and dragged him out, closing the door behind them.  
  
When they were alone, Donna reached up and straightened her husband's tie, securing the knot firmly at his throat, smoothing the collar and letting her hands drop down the lapels. He did look better, she noted. The scar at his temple was not so Frankenstein-like with the stitches out, and enough hair had grown in to disguise part of it at least, so that it seemed not quite as stark. And even though he had protested, a little camera make- up had softened the garish bruises that gravity had pulled across his cheek and jaw. Nevertheless, the evidence of the attack could not be missed.  
  
"You okay?" she asked lightly, more than just a perfunctory question, but not so much that it smothered him.  
  
He nodded and smiled at her, but the twinkle didn't make it to his eyes. He was focused, "in his head," as Toby said. He had his game face on and no one would distract him, not even his wife.  
  
She tried to work more conversation between them, strangely uncertain exactly how far he had come with the therapy, with his persistent and drawn- out sessions that worked to bring his words out as close to the old Bartlet delivery as possible.  
  
"Jed?" she began, smoothing his tie again absently, then leaning against him so that his arms came around her in an automatic embrace. She felt his muscles hard and tight against his suit, his body almost rigid with the pressure.  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
"You've worked hard for this. Just go out there and do what I know you can do."  
  
She saw the uncharacteristic uncertainty in his eyes and caught her breath at the sudden significance. He wasn't ready.  
  
Leo had told her once that a podium was like a holy place for Jed, an extension of his own body. And she had seen that over and over. It was his gift. But now, for the first time in his life, probably, Jed Bartlet was approaching that holy place like an interloper. It wasn't his, anymore.  
  
She sensed disaster looming. "Toby's helped," she encouraged. "Leo's helped. The speech therapist has helped." Hopefully that was true.  
  
He didn't answer, didn't even look at her. This wasn't working at all.  
  
But a thought crossed her mind, the vanguard of an idea. A crazy idea. A wild idea. Desperate times called for desperate measures.  
  
"But I see we have missed a final step in that process," she said, letting her hands slide up from his lapels to rest at the back of his neck.  
  
He frowned and finally looked at her, pulling back a little. "Donna, I'm – fine. It'll work out – all right."  
  
She shook her head slowly and reached to loosen the tie.  
  
"What – are you doing?" he asked, catching her hand before she could undo his careful knot. This was the State of the Union, after all. The nation and most of the world would be looking at him. They would notice a crooked tie. Well, maybe not before they saw the three-inch bullet wound, but they would notice eventually.  
  
"I'm helping prepare you for the speech," she told him, as if it should have been apparent.  
  
Her other hand slid down his chest and began unbuttoning his shirt. He forgot the tie.  
  
"What the – hell? Donna – what – "  
  
But her tongue licking the bare skin choked him for a moment. When he found his breath, he said, "My God – Donna. We can't – you can't – The State of the – Are you crazy? We don't have – time to – "  
  
She didn't stop, merely pushed back the crisp fabric for better access to him. "Oh yes, we do. I won't need long for this. I'm good."  
  
He couldn't suppress a grin, even past the mild panic she had evoked. "No argument – there," he agreed, "but – "  
  
"Sit."  
  
"Donna – "  
  
"Sit."  
  
Her firm command sent a message of expected compliance. Still, she almost raised a fist in triumph when he actually obeyed. Carefully perched in a hard wingback, he narrowed his eyes as she dropped to her knees in the elegant suit.  
  
"Donna – you don't – intend to – "  
  
Oh, but she did. She did, indeed.  
  
Her hands worked quickly to unbuckle his belt and push his shirttails out of the way. They really didn't have time for him to re-dress. Startled, he tried to pull away, but lost his motivation when she opened his fly and tugged the boxers low enough to release him.  
  
"Ah – Donna – seriously, we can't – "  
  
"Have you noticed," she asked him, taking advantage of his weakening resolve, "that when you are relaxed, you speak more smoothly?"  
  
He looked down now, one brow raised. "What?"  
  
"You do. After our – encounter in the study the other day, you had a much easier time. Then while you were playing with J.T. on the floor last night you were almost eloquent. Each time you were relaxed, and you weren't thinking about trying so hard to say that damned speech." Her eyes softened at his pensive expression.  
  
"That's – ri – diculous," he declared, and she felt his thighs tense beneath her hands. "Really, Donna – we can't –  
  
"It's not ridiculous. It's true."  
  
For a moment he stared at her, contemplating the theory. "You really – think?"  
  
"I know. I've been watching you. I thought we could test my theory. You're very tense right now." Her right hand slid across his leg to place a whisper caress on his thickening flesh. He was working not to react, but his body betrayed him, leaping toward her touch.  
  
Shaking his head, he gulped, "I've got to deliver – the State of the – Union in forty-five minutes, and you're – you're about to – "  
  
"Think about it. Anyone knows that if you try too hard, you just frustrate yourself. It's when you relax that things come naturally again." She let the caress grow a little bolder. "And speaking of hard – "  
  
"I don't know – maybe," he allowed, leaning his head back against the chair. "But Leo – and Toby are – waiting. C-congress is – waiting."  
  
"Let them wait," she said, rubbing her thumb over the tip, now slick with his arousal. "They'll thank me later."  
  
"Hell no," he groaned, pushing into her grasp, finally unable to resist any longer. "I'd – better be the – only one – ah – thanking you."  
  
After that, she was much too occupied and he was much too incoherent to continue the conversation.  
  
Fifteen minutes later, she lay with her head against his knee, his fingers entwined in her hair, his breathing coming hard and fast, mimicking what another part of him had done only moments before. She wished they had more time because she could use a little relaxing, herself. But her mission had been accomplished. She just hoped it had the effect she was counting on.  
  
The knock on the door reminded them of their waiting engagement. "Yeah?" she called, when Jed didn't answer, didn't even raise his head from the back of the chair.  
  
Wisely, Charlie called through the door, "Mister President, the limo's ready."  
  
"Thanks, Charlie," Donna returned. "We'll be right out."  
  
Pushing herself from the floor, she moved back between his legs and leaned in for a kiss. "Sorry I couldn't go slower," she murmured against his lips. "We didn't have much time."  
  
"Umm. You made the best of it," he mumbled back, nibbling at her tongue, his eyes still closed. "But I owe you – "  
  
Pulling back, she rose and headed toward the bathroom. "You owe me the most incredible State of the Union speech ever made."  
  
"It'll be incredible, all right," he agreed, but sarcasm sharpened the tone.  
  
"Jed – "  
  
"No. It's okay." With a reluctant groan, he opened his eyes, stood and re- buttoned, re-tucked and re-zipped. "I will say that your method of preparation sure beats the hell out of – Toby's making me say the same sentence ten times in a row," he decided with a grin. "But I still owe you – "  
  
Then he stopped and stared after her, hearing for the first time what she was talking about.  
  
"See?" she boasted, leaning out of the bathroom door and calling through a mouthful of toothpaste. "I told you."  
  
Cautious amazement brightened his face. "I'll be damned. You think it'll last?"  
  
"Well," she decided, reapplying her lipstick with one hand and smoothing her suit with the other, "we could stop by the cloak room on the way into the Capitol just in case."  
  
As she reached up to fix the tie she had loosened earlier, he smirked. "Okay."  
  
"You would, too."  
  
"Mister President?" Another call from outside the door.  
  
"Toby's getting nervous," he said, and offered his arm to her. "Ready?"  
  
She smiled at him and took the arm, proud and grateful to be at his side. "Ready."  
  
She hoped he was ready, hoped that this momentary release would last long enough to get him through, that the instant he walked into that hall the fears, the demons wouldn't snatch him by the throat and choke him again.  
  
Before they spilled out into the hallway, before they had to share their words with anyone else, she turned and took his face in her hands. "You are the smartest, bravest, strongest, best man I know. Whatever happens out there will not change that. And it won't change the fact that I love you so very much."  
  
His lips pressed together and she watched as the moisture threatened his eyes. Her own were damp, as well.  
  
Not intending to get quite that emotional, she patted him on the arm and said lightly, "You will be wonderful. I know it. Now go out there and ad lib Toby's speech. He'll be disappointed it you don't."  
  
Letting her pull them back from the depths, he smiled. "Thanks." Then his lips met hers for a tender kiss before they opened the door.  
  
As they strolled toward the limo to begin the short trip to the Capitol, she took one small liberty in front of the staff and wiped the light smear of lipstick from his mouth.  
  
If any President ever forgot, during the daily routine of administration, that he was the leader of the free world and arguably the most important person in the world, it would take only one experience like the State of the Union to remind him. The entire Congress, the U.S. Supreme Court, dignitaries, the most important people in Washington, representatives from foreign nations – all there to hear one man, to focus completely on one man.  
  
And tonight that man was Josiah Bartlet.  
  
Alone, except for her agents, Donna walked through the impressive Hall of Columns on her way to the Hall of the House of Representatives directly above. She had left him with his detail, seeing in his eyes that he was once more focused on the task before him, but hoping that her small contribution to his preparation would help him clear the tension. As her eyes fell on the white stalks around her, she wondered if Jed had followed the same path a few minutes earlier, wondered if he remembered the last time they had strolled through the grand room together. A smile curved her lips as Jed's voice echoed his ubiquitous trivia in her head.  
  
"Did you know," he had begun as they visited the Capitol several months before, using his professorial voice, "that this hall takes its name from the twenty-eight fluted, white columns? The capitals are a variation on the Corinthian order, incorporating not only classical acanthus leaves, but also thistles and native American tobacco plants."  
  
She dimpled at the not-so-subtle eye rolls from his senior staff. Despite their professions of irritation with the boss's favorite pastime – well, favorite public pastime – they never failed to jump at the bait when he offered inane trivia.  
  
"Freak," Toby had muttered under his breath.  
  
Jed didn't turn, but continued his swift strides. "I heard that."  
  
"Said with the utmost respect, sir," the communications chief assured him quickly.  
  
"Yeah. Well, since you scoff at such knowledge, Tobias, I sense the need for a more in-depth lesson."  
  
"Good goin'," C.J. accused her fellow senior staffer.  
  
But Donna saw the fond amusement in her eyes.  
  
Gesturing grandly around him, their boss continued, "The marble for the columns was quarried at Lee, Massachusetts, and the ceiling cast in Baltimore at the foundry of Hayward, Bartlett, and Company."  
  
"Relatives, sir?" Josh asked.  
  
"Distant. They have too many t's, though. A family argument or somethin'. The walls between the pilasters are finished in scagliola, an imitation marble made of firmly ground gypsum and glue."  
  
Toby scowled. "They couldn't afford real marble?"  
  
But Jed ignored him. "The original floor was laid with Minton encaustic tiles from England, but they wore out. Any idea where the new marble came from?"  
  
Toby's glare dared anyone to answer, but Josh couldn't resist. "New Hampshire?" he guessed eagerly.  
  
"Heart of Dixie," Jed hinted.  
  
The Deputy Chief of Staff snapped a finger in triumph. "Mississippi!"  
  
"Harvard and Yale?" Jed questioned, his voice falling in mock disappointment. "Should have gone to Notre Dame, Joshua. They actually teach practical things there."  
  
"Like where the tile in this room comes from?" Toby wondered  
  
"First of all," Jed went on, casting only a perfunctory glare at the spoiled sport, "Alabama is the Heart of Dixie, and that's where the white marble is from. The black marble is from New York, which is, by the way, the Empire State."  
  
Josh snapped his fingers. "I knew that one."  
  
"And second of all?" Toby asked.  
  
"What?"  
  
"You said, 'First of all Alabama is the Heart of Dixie.' With a first there must be a second. You have an A, you need a B. What is second of all?"  
  
Jed shrugged, unconcerned with his breech of outline etiquette. "Okay, no second of all. Just – Alabama is the Heart of Dixie."  
  
"And you are telling us this why?"  
  
"Knowledge is power, Toby. Plus one day you may be on Jeopardy, and if this comes up, you're set."  
  
"Of course, sir. Ever the pragmatist."  
  
By then they had left the hall, but the conversation continued throughout the building until duty took the President of the United States away from his captive students. Still, Donna wondered if they all remembered where the marble came from. She bet they did.  
  
With a sigh the First Lady pushed herself back from the fond memory. The columns he had pointed out seemed to close in on her now. The atmosphere was no longer bantering or teasing, but charged. Those days of lightning dialogue were long past. She wondered if Jed would ever be able to volley verbally with his staff again, and fervently prayed that he would. It was so much a part of who he was.  
  
As they passed an office near the stairs, she caught the sound of a television newscast and stopped. Inside the door stood a young man, dark hair flopped over his eyes, a clerk perhaps, propped on a desk that probably wasn't his.  
  
"May I watch a minute?" she asked.  
  
He sprang up instantly, stumbling over a chair. "Yes – yes, ma'am. Of – of course."  
  
But she waved off the seat he offered and leaned against the doorframe, listening to the news anchors speculate on what they would see. They had the script, as usual before hand, knew the points he would emphasize, had already set up the rebuttal from the Republicans. None of those things enticed them. It was the mystery of what man they would see when he finally entered the chamber. The unveiling of a fallen king and the conjectures of what the lifted curtain would reveal.  
  
As Toby had predicted, tonight was not about the State of the Union. It was about the State of the President. News agencies from around the world had poured into D.C. for a week, ever since C.J. announced the speech was still on. Coverage for the night had never been so complete, so electric with anticipation, none of which had much to do with the actual content.  
  
"The President is expected soon in the chamber," Tom Brokaw was saying in his familiar drawl. "And I am sure all of us are anxious to see him. It will be his first real appearance since the assassination attempt, and what a venue to make that first appearance, giving the State of the Union speech."  
  
He turned to the seat beside him and the camera shifted to reveal a stout, gray haired Army officer waiting stiffly for his fifteen minutes of fame to begin. He was apparently the military expert of the moment.  
  
"We have with us tonight Lieutenant Colonel George Besting, former assistant to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs from 1995 to 1997. Thank you for joining us tonight, Colonel."  
  
The solider nodded with typical soldier curtness. "Thank you."  
  
"Well, there seem to be two questions tonight. Who shot the President? And what effects will we see from his injuries?"  
  
"You are certainly right, Tom," the guest agreed amicably. "Everyone wants to know who shot the President, besides, of course, the obvious answer that it was a member of his own staff. I think we have established now that this person, this woman, was a plant. But the question is who planted her?"  
  
The anchorman nodded. "Are there any answers?"  
  
Shrugging, Besting said, "Not officially, of course, or we would have already heard about it."  
  
"Does that mean there are unofficial answers?" Brokaw wanted to know.  
  
Well, he wasn't the only one.  
  
"There is strong talk of a North Korean connection, but of course I hesitate to make any definitive statement. Still, that keeps coming up over and over."  
  
The veteran newsman shook his head. "What will happen if these theories are substantiated, if it's proven that North Korea did have something to do with an attempt on a sitting American President? I mean, could this mean war?"  
  
Donna felt a chill run through her. It could mean war, she knew, even though she felt Jed would do everything he could to keep from reaching that point.  
  
With a sigh, the colonel nodded. "Well, I would have to say that if there was proof of this, it certainly could lead to hostilities. Our troops in the DMZ are already on alert, so that's evidence that the White House and the Pentagon have some sort of suspicions."  
  
With a sympathetic, and possibly concerned, grunt, Brokaw turned away from the military analyst and twisted so that he faced another person to his right.  
  
"Answers to that first question aren't very encouraging. Let's see if we can do better on the second question." He turned to the second guest, an attractive dark-skinned woman who looked much too young to be the obvious expert witness the network had procured for the commentary. "We have with us tonight Doctor Evelyn Borris, neurologist from Johns Hopkins. Thank you for being here, Doctor Borris."  
  
The doctor nodded. "Thank you for having me." Her smooth, confident voice clocked her age more accurately.  
  
"As if possible war with North Korea wasn't enough, the President has even more to worry about as a result of this assault, isn't that right, Doctor?"  
  
She hesitated, her expression a little uncertain about where the reporter was going. Carefully, she responded, "There are always concerns for the recovery of anyone who has sustained such an injury as the President's, but certainly just by who he is, he provokes much more interest."  
  
Brokaw leaned forward. "Doctor Boris, we have reports that the President's speech pattern has been affected by the head injury he suffered. To what extent, we don't know. The White House has been quiet on that matter. Press Secretary C.J. Cregg continues to report that he is recovering well and has already begun his duties again. Let's talk a little about what has happened to the President and what we can expect tonight when he speaks to the nation, and the world for that matter, for the first time since the attack."  
  
"Well, Tom," she began, leaning against the counter with an ease that seemed natural. They had chosen their guest commentator well. "According to hospital reports, the President suffered a bullet wound to the left side of his head just above the brow and extending around the outside of the cranium to exit approximately three inches from the entry point. The bullet did not penetrate the skull, something I believe we can all say was a fairly impressive bit of luck."  
  
"Some have called it a miracle," Brokaw offered.  
  
"So I've heard."  
  
The newscaster glanced down at his notes briefly. "George Washington doctors also reported an injury to his left forearm in that unbelievable scuffle with the assassin. Is there any danger from that?"  
  
"Actually, the IV lines were ripped out of his arm – "  
  
Donna cringed along with Tom Brokaw.  
  
"– during the second attempt. That was when his brother-in-law fell on him in an effort to save his life."  
  
"Another part of this incredible story that has amazed us all since the White House released the information a week ago."  
  
"That is certainly true," the doctor agreed. "The arm wound, however, should not affect him tonight. What will be interesting to see is how the concussion has affected him."  
  
"Now this is just speculation," the newscaster reminded, "but what are the possible effects we might expect?"  
  
She pulled no punches. "With serious concussions there can be memory loss, weakness in the limbs. In severe cases, convulsions."  
  
Brokaw winced. "Are there any signs of those things?"  
  
"Not from what I have heard," she said. "Of course, you have already alluded to another possibility."  
  
"His ability to speak."  
  
"Aphasia."  
  
"Tell us exactly what aphasia is, please."  
  
"Aphasia is the impaired expression or comprehension of written or spoken language."  
  
"What does that mean, exactly?"  
  
"It means that the President may have difficultly expressing himself. His words may come slowly or not at all. His thoughts may be jerky, hard to string together coherently."  
  
"But this President is giving a major speech in just a few minutes. How could he do that if he had such a disability?"  
  
"He is taking a risk that the world will see any problem as a possible effect on his ability to execute his official duties," she admitted.  
  
"Could it truly affect his ability?'  
  
"I supposed that's to be seen," the doctor said carefully.  
  
Brokaw nodded and smiled to her, his body language a clear sign that the segment was over. "All right. Some of our questions could well be answered soon. Thank you for being with us tonight, Doctor." Swinging back to the camera, he said, "Is war imminent? Is the President up to the task of fulfilling his duties in an escalating situation? We'll return in just a minute with the State of the Union and the first appearance of Josiah Bartlet since his injury in a stunning assassination attempt. Stay with us."  
  
She hoped Jed wasn't watching, hoped he didn't hear that the whole world would be hanging on his every word, and would stretch to hear if his own words hung.  
  
A few minutes before time for his entrance, she made her way through the greeting crowds and eased into the seat on the front row of the balcony amid the generous and warm applause of the assembly. She hoped this indicated a similar reception for her husband. On her left sat Zoey. Ellie sat to her right. And surrounding them were representatives of several families who would be referred to during the speech.  
  
The milling senators, representatives, reporters, clerks, and guests began making their way to their own seats and the air grew almost electric as the time for Jed's entry approached. The Public had not really seen him since the shooting, had relied on C.J.'s briefings to tell them he was fine, he was recovering, he was preparing for the State of the Union.  
  
So as the clerk stood at the doors and announced, "Mister Speaker, the President of the United States," the assembly rose as one and turned expectantly around.  
  
A hush swept through the room as his audience got their first good look at him. Even as good as he looked, it didn't take long to see the scar. She watched the unnerved expressions as it sank in just how narrowly they had escaped disaster. One millimeter over, and the bullet would have smashed straight through that brilliant brain.  
  
But he entered, just as he had done five times before, ignoring the stares, smiling as usual, hands extended to shake those offered hesitantly at first, then with growing eagerness as they felt his strength, saw his confidence. Not a hint of weakness in his step, and he somehow managed to grasp as many hands with his left as he did with his right, even though she knew it had to hurt. Stitches still closed the arm wound.  
  
She couldn't tell if he spoke to anyone more than just a repeated name, but suddenly, the applause grew, expanded as he drew closer to the podium, an audible sign of congratulations for surviving, if nothing else. But he hadn't proved himself, yet. The wariness still pinched their faces, the uncertainty tightened their mouths.  
  
When he finally made it onto the dais, shaking the hands of the Vice- President and the Speaker of the House, she almost felt as if she were watching the final minutes of a Hitchcock movie in which the audience knew something was going to happen, but didn't know if it would be grand or horrifying.  
  
She wished she knew.  
  
Jed faced them and motioned for silence, which fell almost immediately. The entire room held its breath, waited.  
  
Donna held her breath, too, crossed her fingers in the folds of her gown. She noticed Zoey and Ellie in similar poses. He gripped the sides of the podium, squared his shoulders and looked out over the waiting crowd.  
  
Please God, she prayed. Please let him manage this without embarrassment. Please let them hear the words and not just the delivery. Please let the context outweigh any cosmetic factors. Please.  
  
The assembly waited for his first word, ready to hear, ready to listen, ready to judge. Donna opened her eyes and tried to convey her support across the distance, tried to send her strength over the emotional connection she shared with him.  
  
"Mister Speaker. Mister Vice-President. Members of Congress. Honored Guests. My fellow – Americans."  
  
He had paused between each acknowledgement, his words deliberate. His audience waited, having heard the rumors, the dire predictions through the press all week. Having been told that their eloquent, articulate, word- wizard of a chief executive had to fight for every syllable, for every consonant and every vowel.  
  
He had begun conservatively, giving himself a chance to ease into the rhythm, but even with those few words, they had heard the falters, the unaccustomed pauses, which were such stark contrast to his characteristically smooth style that the impact of his injury became instantly clear. It was the ultimate irony, and she dreaded it for him, even as she vowed to be by his side every step of the way, regardless. Every step.  
  
The room remained completely silent. A few representatives stole glances at each other. The more seasoned senators managed to keep their eyes on the President, but she saw the uneasiness in them.  
  
She tried to project her support, tried to make him feel her with him. Letting the silence linger, he pressed his lips together and turned his head so that he was looking directly at her, holding her gaze several moments. And the message that leapt between them almost took her breath.  
  
He was ready. Whatever happened, he was ready.  
  
Pulling his attention back to the audience, he took one deep breath, relaxed his shoulders, looked straight into the camera, and opened his mouth.  
  
"Two weeks ago, the peace and security of our nation was once again challenged by people that view human life without value, by people who elevate power and greed above cooperation and compassion. They challenged. And now I have a message for those terrorists and would-be assassins that didn't intend for me to be here tonight. I have a message for the people of this nation, for the people of the world: We have met the challenge. Because my name is Josiah Bartlet. And I am STILL the President of the United States of America."  
  
For one stunned beat silence prevailed. But only one beat. Then, the room erupted. Senators and representatives on both sides of the aisle leapt to their feet. Foreign dignitaries, the Washington elite, fresh-faced clerks. All of them stood, their shouts and cheers resembling a raucous session of Parliament more than a joint session of Congress. Even the dignified justices, who never responded to anything in the State of the Union, stood and applauded this announcement, this courage, this man.  
  
Donna stared, slack-jawed. That opening had not been part of the original draft, and she wondered if Jed had been the one to add it. It sounded like him. And he had delivered the message without one hesitation, without a single falter. The richness of Jed Bartlet's gift was still there, commanding his audience, winning the nation and the world, and she knew he wouldn't lose them now. They would go the distance with him tonight, no matter how many stumbles he might make later, or how many pauses he might take. With that bold declaration, with that show of pure strength and willpower, they were with him for the distance.  
  
The roar continued, to be recounted by newscasters in the days to come, since they always took notice of the length of applause. It pushed on and on, despite Jed's occasional attempts to silence them so he could continue. This one would go into the record books.  
  
Pride swelled in her heart as she watched him, and he allowed himself a grin toward her, his face flushed with triumph, and a little astonishment. Ignoring protocol, she made a gentle fist with her right hand and placed it over heart, a completely endearing gesture she had learned from him, one that seemed appropriate to use at that moment to express her love. The cameras caught it, and she knew she would see it in the news the next day, but she didn't care.  
  
She didn't care one bit. 


	16. It's Curtains for the Oval: Epilogue

POV: Donna Spoilers: None Rating: PG-13/R Disclaimer: These are not my characters. I did not create them. I do, however, love them.  
  
A Dagger Unseen – Epilogue A West Wing Story  
  
by MAHC  
  
"– don't think anyone anticipated it."  
  
"No, I don't think so, Tom. The President erased any doubts about his ability to lead, and about his recovery."  
  
"There were a few pauses, a few stumbles."  
  
"Yes," agreed the medical expert from Johns Hopkins. Donna had forgotten her name. "But I think they made him even more impressive. We could see what he had overcome, what he had fought through. I have to say I was not expecting such a powerful performance from what we were hearing behind the scenes."  
  
Tom Brokaw turned toward the camera, his familiar face crinkled slightly in a smile. "Thank you, Doctor Boris. Well, we've heard the Republican response to the State of the Union, and even as some of them stuck with partisan rebuttals, they could not help but give praise to President Bartlet. I think both sides of the aisle agree that he gave an impressive – "  
  
Donna Bartlet grinned at the television, at the astonishment of the commentators, of the pundits, of the public in general. He had done it. Jed had done it, and even his wife had to admit to no small amazement over his accomplishment.  
  
The atmosphere in the West Wing was almost giddy with relief, with excitement, with pride. Even Toby allowed himself a few smiles over the President's victorious visit to the Hill.  
  
"He was incredible."  
  
Donna turned just as C.J. handed her a glass of champagne. "Yes," she agreed, accepting the offered drink.  
  
"I mean, I don't see how – well, when he was just – he couldn't even – and then he – He was incredible." Apparently the Press Secretary had already partaken in more than one glass of the bubbly herself. But Donna understood the gushing, had trouble keeping herself from it, as well.  
  
She opened her mouth to respond, but a soft comment drew her instant attention.  
  
"Of course, you know this means that before every speech, we have to – have sex."  
  
Donna grinned at the whisper at her ear, but didn't turn. "Toby, I told you it'll have to be every other speech."  
  
Jed Bartlet threw back his head and laughed, that deep true laugh that was his alone, turning the heads of those closest to the First Couple, drawing smiles from the visitors fortunate enough to be included in the celebration, heady with the success of the State of the Union, with the triumphant return of their Commander-in-Chief.  
  
"No," he insisted, "every speech."  
  
"Before and after, just to be on the safe side," she threw back.  
  
"Well, then, we still have – the after, don't we?" The promise in his husky voice triggered a warm tingle deep inside her.  
  
Oh yes. They still had the after. Before she had a chance to anticipate it, he had leaned in for a tender kiss, not too long, but not so brief that the cameras missed it. There was another photo for the paper tomorrow.  
  
"Congratulations, Mister President." C.J. offered, her pink cheeks evidence that she had overheard their intimate banter.  
  
"Thank you," Jed answered, pulling away from his wife to kiss the Press Secretary on the cheek, then turning to shake the approaching outstretched hands of Josh and Will as the two men conveyed their own praise.  
  
"Grand slam, Mister President," Josh said, all dimples.  
  
"Yes, sir. Game winning grand slam," added Will.  
  
"Thanks," Jed returned simply.  
  
They all turned as the Communications Director approached, the habitual scowl replaced by some unfamiliar expression that almost resembled a grin.  
  
"Toby!" Jed called, slapping him on the back. "Sorry about the – ad lib at the beginning."  
  
Now the grin finally appeared, broad and bright – for Toby anyway. "Well, sir, if you hadn't been on live television – "  
  
"Coward."  
  
"Yes, sir." But Donna watched as the younger man's eyes sharpened in a silent message: Pride. Affection. Triumph.  
  
Jed nodded in return, words unnecessary between two men who had beaten the odds.  
  
"Drinks all around!" Josh proposed, lifting his empty glass. "Empty the kegs of the kingdom."  
  
"I think your keg's already been emptied, Sir Joshua," C.J. noted, her own grin threatening to get downright silly.  
  
"That's Lord Joshua to you," he returned, and Donna couldn't help laughing aloud as they all were caught up in the joy.  
  
But such moments frequently proved to be ephemeral in the world of earth's most powerful – and most pressured – leader. Even before they all saw him, the very aura of Leo's solemnity smothered their giddiness.  
  
"Mister President?"  
  
Jed turned and Donna watched his expression fall as he noticed his Chief of Staff. "Yeah?"  
  
"May I have a word, sir?"  
  
A word between the President of the United States and his Chief of Staff held much heavier significance than most. Donna sighed. It was always something. Couldn't he just have this time?  
  
"Okay."  
  
The two stepped away from the crowd, but not completely out of the room. Donna watched carefully, trying to tell what was being conveyed, trying to see Jed's reaction. She resented anyone who might cause him stress right now, even Leo. She watched as her husband bowed his head, cocking it slightly as he listened to whatever news the Chief of Staff had for him. Suddenly, the head came up, eyes staring into Leo's. His hand gripped his friend's arm. Donna was only a few seconds away from interfering, from protecting him. She tried to gather some hint about what was said from their expressions, but Jed only nodded and pursed his lips thoughtfully. After a moment, he patted Leo on the shoulder and returned to the group.  
  
"Everything all right, sir?" C.J. asked. She was speaking for all of them.  
  
He sighed and Donna closed her eyes against whatever disaster was now threatening them. Couldn't they catch even one break?  
  
"The UN Secretary General called," he said.  
  
Okay. To berate the President for his bold statements? To ask for more time or more leniency? Would the U.S. be an island in a sea of disagreement?  
  
"They are calling a meeting of the Security Council tomorrow."  
  
They waited. That could mean many things.  
  
Then she saw it. Despite the straight line of his mouth, despite the furrowed brow, the eyes couldn't hide his true feelings. And those beautiful blues sparkled, belying his outward façade. He saw that she could see through him. Giving up the pretense, he allowed the smile to break through.  
  
"He is asking for sanctions against North Korea and immediate IAEA inspections," he told them with a satisfied nod. "He expects the entire Security Council to back the request and to issue an official condemnation of North Korea's involvement in the attempt."  
  
For a moment no one spoke. It was more than they could have hoped for. Then C.J. shook off the surprise and said, "That's – that's incredible." It seemed to be her word for the night. "Congratulations, sir."  
  
"There is another thing, though," Jed added, his voice heavy with caution.  
  
"China," Josh guessed.  
  
"China," Jed confirmed.  
  
"Have they issued a statement?" Toby asked.  
  
"Yep."  
  
"And?"  
  
Jed sighed again. "The People's Republic of China pledges its complete support – "  
  
Damn. Of course China would back North Korea. Now they would have a much more formidable adversary. It was another Korean War. Or perhaps worse. A war with the most populous country in the –  
  
"– of the United Nations and the United States and vehemently condemns any actions supported by the Democratic Republic of Korea that might be connected to the reprehensible attack on the U.S. President." He lifted a brow. "That would be me."  
  
Now she saw Leo step into their circle, his smirk breaking through the stone façade.  
  
"What?" Will asked, or maybe it was Josh.  
  
"China condemns – "  
  
The Chief of Staff smiled openly now. "Vehemently condemns actions supported by North Korea."  
  
"That's tantamount to – "  
  
"To breaking relations," Jed supplied. "Probably doesn't mean they will. But it is – unprecedented."  
  
"It blows away any validity North Korea had," Toby said. "Nobody will stand by them if China doesn't."  
  
"And it will almost surely force their hand on the nuclear issue. All or nothing."  
  
"What do we do now, sir?" Will wondered.  
  
Jed took a beat as they all waited for his proclamation. He pressed his lips together, then allowed a smile to pull them apart. "We let the IAEA and the UN take it."  
  
Several protests greeted his decision. Josh was the first to voice their bewilderment. "But, sir, they tried to – they killed the people on those planes. They almost killed you!"  
  
Her husband cocked his head slightly, his tone patient but firm. "First, Josh, we still don't have a direct connection from the planes to the North Korean government. For that matter, we don't have a definitive connection to my – incident."  
  
"But – "  
  
"Second, let's say we do it. Let's say we strip North Korea of all self- government, of all military capability. What would happen?"  
  
Six pairs of eyes stayed on him. No one spoke.  
  
"It's been tried before," he told them. When no one ventured a guess as to when, he explained, "The Treaty of Versailles, 1919. Germany was left with nothing, except devastating poverty and a humiliation that hungered for anyone or anything that could rescue them."  
  
Josh blanched. Toby shifted slightly and looked away.  
  
Jed nodded at their comprehension. "We don't need another Hitler rising from the ruins of North Korea. And the – North Korean people don't need that either. We guide, we even dictate, perhaps, some safeguards, but we don't – administer the death sentence for their government. It could very well be our own."  
  
Now he smiled and shrugged slightly. "Besides, it's our turn, now, to be – magnanimous. We offer the olive branch."  
  
"That seems awfully forgiving of you, sir, considering – "  
  
Jed waved off the suggestion of his surprising benevolence. "Yeah. Well, what do we win by forcing them to build a bomb? Aren't we supposed to be the good guys?"  
  
No one spoke for awhile. Then Leo nodded, a fond smile curving his lips. "Yes, sir. We are." After a moment, the smile broke into a grin and he asked, "Defer to the UN?"  
  
"Defer."  
  
"Final answer?"  
  
With a confident nod, the President of the United States confirmed, "Final answer. Besides," he grinned, lifting Donna's fingers to his lips, "I have plans."  
  
The others grinned back, happy that their leader was back, happy that the world seemed to support them, and happy that, for the first time in a long time, no sinister mysteries hung over their heads.  
  
As the Chief of Staff disappeared through the crowd to relay his boss' instructions to the Joint Chiefs, Donna watched Jed carefully. For the first time in weeks he seemed truly relaxed, truly happy.  
  
The assassin was dead. Gino was okay. Jed was on his way to recovery. J.T. was safe. And North Korea's hand had been called. Was it over? Was dawn finally burning away the nightmare? She prayed that it was.  
  
But a second glance reminded her that, even though he had wowed the world tonight with his energy, his determination, he still struggled against the effects of an assassin's efforts. The lines of fatigue stretched down his face, even as he tried to drag together an upbeat façade for the Assistant Secretary of State, who had asked for a moment after Leo's exit.  
  
It was time to call it a night. Mustering her own public face, she strode toward him, gently sliding a hand into the crook of his arm and sending the message by simple touch. His response pleased her.  
  
With a smile, he dismissed the deputy cabinet member and turned to her, eyes grateful for the rescue. He brushed her cheek with his lips. "Hey, Beautiful."  
  
Charmer. "Hey yourself, Handsome. What do you say we blow this party and create one of our own?"  
  
His brow lifted in a wicked arch. "Blow?"  
  
"If you're very good," she promised without missing a beat.  
  
"I'm always very good," he assured her right back.  
  
Well, that was true.  
  
"Seriously, Jed, we need to get you into bed."  
  
His brow lifted in a leer. "Donna, when you say 'we' – "  
  
"You know what I mean."  
  
He sighed, the teasing tone fading. "Yeah." No fuss, no protest. He was exhausted.  
  
"Well then, Sundance," she decided, keeping her own voice light, "we're gonna make a break for it."  
  
With a grin, he squeezed her hand. "Right behind you, Butch."  
  
He stepped forward a little, enough to gain the attention of the room, which, when you are President of the United States, isn't too difficult. "Friends, I would like to thank you for your support and – presence tonight. When President Gerald Ford took office after the – resignation of President Nixon, he said, 'Our long national nightmare is over.' Donna and I feel almost the same way, but on a more personal note. These past few weeks have been a nightmare for our family – for Donna in particular."  
  
When he allowed himself a glance toward her, she saw the brightness in his eyes. He turned away quickly. "And I want to say now to all of you how much I love her and – " The crack in his voice did not go unnoticed by anyone in the room. Donna saw more than one person lift a hand to wipe away their own tears. "– and how much she has meant to me – " His voice grew thicker, and he stopped for a moment, unable to continue. After a beat, he managed to get out the last few words. "– in these days."  
  
He squeezed her hand again and kissed her gently, right there in front of everybody. Donna lost her battle to keep the tears from burning her eyes.  
  
With a deep breath, he gathered control and finished. "But I believe it's over. And I believe our world will be a better place – because of the unity we have found, because of the support we've received from the international community. Thank you for your prayers. I hope you will – continue them for all of us. And now, it's been a long day and my wife and I will bid you goodnight."  
  
Amid the good nights and well wishes of the crowd, the First Couple flowed past the guests and toward the Residence. No one seemed to begrudge their leader his early retirement, especially when they got a good look at the determination on the First Lady's face.  
  
Three hours later, the Executive Mansion rested under a blanket of silence. The celebrants had left, J.T. had been cuddled and fed, the Secret Service had secured the building for the night. And the First Lady of the United States lay in her husband's arms, long blonde hair spread out over his chest, fingers tracing light circles on his abdomen.  
  
Both of them still struggled to calm their breathing, to slow their pounding hearts after one of the most intense climaxes either had ever experienced. Donna wasn't sure what had prompted the fury that swept over them. Maybe it was the strain of the State of the Union. Maybe it was the capitulation of North Korea. Maybe it was delayed effects of the trauma of his wounds. Maybe it was a potent combination of all those things. But there was no question about the ferocity of their coupling that evening.  
  
She listened to the hard beating inside his chest and was grateful that God had given them this second chance, that He had allowed the beating to continue past the firing of the bullet.  
  
"Jed?"  
  
"Hmm?" The voice told her he was just this side of consciousness.  
  
"You okay?"  
  
Her skin still remembered the wet heat of his tongue as it slid across her, her body still felt the pulsing burn deep inside as he trembled with the violent release that she knew was the literal and figurative climax of weeks of impossible stress and worry. It all seemed to erupt from him, punctuated by a harsh cry that somehow didn't draw the Secret Service to their door. As he drove into her, she had felt the bitterness drain from him, the cleansing waves wash through them both until his muscles refused to support him and he collapsed on top of her, gasping.  
  
His breath came a little easier now as he responded vaguely, "Umm hmm."  
  
And he was okay. She knew that now. They were both okay. They were all okay.  
  
"That was incredible," she whispered into his chest, moving her hand up to run through the damp hair. Her legs still shook from the explosive response to his touch as he had claimed her with overpowering passion. Her muscles still quivered at her center, ached with the greed of someone who had devoured a gourmet meal, but still lusted after a decadent dessert.  
  
The chef remained inarticulate. "Mmm."  
  
"I think we need a shower."  
  
Indeed, they were both slick with sweat and the copious evidence of their climax. The sheets would definitely need changing in the morning. He didn't answer. She raised her head enough to look at his face and smiled fondly at the sight. His tousled hair fell across his forehead, his expressive mouth parted slightly, allowing steady breaths in and out. Well, it could wait until later. Most certainly, he needed the rest, and it wasn't as if it was the first time she had slept on the wet spot, although she was having more trouble than usual finding a dry patch.  
  
Draping one leg over his thighs, and clutching him tighter around the waist, she let herself drift with him into the respite of sleep.  
  
"Mister President?"  
  
The call was soft, but not soft enough to ignore, and the accompanying rap on the door roused the First Couple. Donna came fully awake as her husband slid out from under her protective limbs, cursing when he fell over the side of the bed. Stumbling across the room, he shrugged into a robe and flung open the door. Somewhere in her fuzzy brain, Donna hoped he had taken the time to tie the sash.  
  
C.J. Cregg stood at the door, leaning forward slightly, her face coloring as she took in her boss' disheveled state. "I'm sorry, Mister President."  
  
He didn't seem convinced. "Yeah?"  
  
"Yes, sir. I really am, but – "  
  
"But not sorry enough NOT to wake me in the middle of the night?"  
  
She swallowed so loudly that Donna could hear it from the bed. "Well – "  
  
Jed waved off her attempt at explanation. "Nevermind. What it is?"  
  
Given a questionable reprieve, the Press Secretary stretched out her hand, which held a manila envelope. "This came a few minutes ago and I thought – "  
  
Jed held out his hand with exaggerated patience, which showed exactly how little patience he really had at the time.  
  
C.J. stepped back and tried to smile past him, but her long face remained drawn into more sober lines. Donna pulled the covers up a little higher and groped by the side of the bed until her hand fell on the long-discarded shirt Jed had worn the night before. Awkwardly, she slipped it on, dreading to see what C.J. had brought.  
  
Please let us have tonight, at least, he thought. Nothing new. Nothing yet.  
  
"What is it?" he asked, voice a little clearer, more alert.  
  
The Press Secretary cut her eyes to the First Lady for a moment, then returned warily to the President. "It's – uh – it's a photograph, sir."  
  
Jed froze for a moment. A photograph? THE photograph, perhaps? Donna had almost forgotten about the missing exposure, had almost let herself truly believe this thing was done. But a remnant of the nightmare still pecked at their happiness, at the resolution of the ordeal. What did this mean? Would they open up The Post tomorrow to be greeted with the President and First Lady en flagrant on the front page? What would the nation think to see definite evidence of the rumors. Talk was one thing, pictures something else entirely.  
  
Slowly, he slid the glossy print from its sheath and Donna held her breath as she caught enough of the layout to recognize that it was, indeed, the remaining erotic photo of them from their heated encounter in the Oval Office. Probably the clearest – and most detailed – one of all. It was taken after he had lifted her onto the desk, after she had wrapped her legs around his waist, just as he was – well, it had certainly captured the height of their encounter. Even under his tan skin she could see the flush as he looked at the picture.  
  
C.J. let her eyes gaze out the window, her own cheeks flaming.  
  
Those famous blues had hardened to steel gray as he glared at her from under drawn brows. "The FBI has seen this?"  
  
Donna winced. Of course. Pass it around. Everybody take a peek.  
  
"Yes, sir. Mikki Chul's prints are the only clear ones on it. Or at least whoever we thought was – "  
  
"Where?" he asked abruptly, his voice sharp.  
  
"Where?"  
  
"Where'd it come from?"  
  
"Danny Concanon."  
  
Danny had it. This was bad. So it was The Post. Legitimate news. She could already see the front page. The President of the United States and First Lady spread out over the Resolute Desk in the Oval Office. Not only would it be humiliating for them, but the entire nation would stand red- faced before the world.  
  
Danny? She had never really trusted Danny. With more worry for Jed than for her own modesty, she slid off the bed and moved to his side. But she did make sure all the significant buttons of his shirt were fastened.  
  
Her husband's jaw pumped twice, then twice again, as he stared at the image. Donna felt the heat rising in her cheeks as she watched C.J.'s eyes dart between Jed and her.  
  
"He's printing this?" the President asked tightly, gesturing with the photograph.  
  
Would there be an accompanying story, or just the damning visual? Any doubts about the veracity of it would be shattered. Rumors were one thing, but how on earth could C.J. spin the actual graphic images?  
  
The press secretary looked at them, mouth open as she realized what they thought. "Oh! No, sir! No! He's not – He's giving it back, Mister President."  
  
Narrowing his eyes and turning his head as if he didn't hear her right, Jed asked, "What?"  
  
"It was sent to The Post. He sent it back."  
  
"He sent it back?"  
  
He sent it back? He sent it back! She had always trusted Danny.  
  
"When?" Jed asked.  
  
"He got it yesterday, but the original envelope was postmarked a couple of weeks ago. Good old U.S. Mail, I guess. The FBI has it now, along with the negative, but I thought you'd want to know – "  
  
"Yesterday?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"And he's sending it now?"  
  
C.J. winced a little. "Well, he thought about it."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"But he didn't do it."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"Yes, sir. Uh, there's a note, sir." C.J. gestured for him to check inside the envelope further.  
  
Pulling out a smaller piece of paper, Jed glanced at Donna in disbelief. Then he stepped to the nightstand, picked up his glasses, slipped them on and read. "'Thought you might want this personal moment to stay that way.'"  
  
Bless Danny Concanon, Donna thought. Bless him.  
  
C.J. was grinning openly now, even through her embarrassment. All three looked at each other, feeling the final weight lift from their shoulders. After a long moment, the President chuckled and glanced back at the note.  
  
"There's more," he added. Danny says, 'By the way, does the Oval Office – have curtains?'"  
  
"Okay, I'm outta here," the Press Secretary declared, striding toward the door before she could be an unwilling witness to any more presidential intimacy. "Good night, Mister President. Good night, Mrs. Bartlet."  
  
"What are you going to do with that?" Donna asked her husband as she gestured toward the erotic image.  
  
He shrugged. "Dunno. Maybe I'll – save it for when I need a – turn on."  
  
But her fingers found his lips just as he finished the sentence. Before he could say anything else, she replaced her fingers with her mouth and drew her body against his, loosening the robe so that he was completely open to her touch. As her hands slid down his stomach to cup him gently, he grunted and let the photo float to the floor, pulling her hips forward so that she could feel him swell between them.  
  
"When you need a turn on, you just call me," she instructed, trailing her fingers around his sides and down his back.  
  
"Oh yeah," he assured her, raising a hand to open the shirt and caress a breast. "You're my first call."  
  
She reached down between them again and held him, a little harder than before. "I'm your ONLY call."  
  
With mostly mock pain, he gasped. "Only call. Got it." Then they both laughed, and he pulled back to hold her face in his hands. "Donna – "  
  
She returned the gaze and caught her breath at the intensity of the love in his eyes.  
  
"I don't know how to tell you – I'm so grateful for – I can't imagine going through this without – "  
  
Her fingers touched his lips again. "Shh. I can't imagine anything without you, Josiah." But she wasn't ready to let the emotion control them again. Not now. Now she wanted something else. "No more talking, all right?"  
  
He let the smile overtake the poignancy in his expression. "No more talking? What should we do, then?"  
  
"I have a few ideas." She tugged him toward the bed.  
  
"Yeah?" He followed obediently.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"I have an idea, too," he offered, leaving the robe in a puddle on the floor.  
  
She felt her heart pump a little harder. "Yeah? What?"  
  
Lowering her to the bed, he let his lips nibble at her neck, pressed his hard heat between her legs, and whispered, "How about tomorrow we check on those curtains for the Oval?"  
  
As she arched upward to meet him, she groaned and decided that wasn't a bad idea. Not a bad idea at all. 


End file.
